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Janice.

I grit my teeth, not looking up.

The smell must hit her instantly because I hear her inhale sharply through her nose. Her heels pause on the threshold of the living room.

“Oh, Lydia…” Her voice is soft, but I hear the recoil in it.

I glance up, just long enough to see her hand lift to cover her mouth. She’s trying not to show it, but the scent, urine, sweat, rot, is heavy and undeniable. Her eyes fall to my father’s slumped body, then to the towels in my lap.

“Is that all from…” she starts, then stops herself.

I don’t have the patience. “Don’t hover,” I snap. “If you want to help, run a bath. Make sure it’s warm enough that he won’t shiver, but not hot. He doesn’t regulate well.”

She blinks at the instructions, startled, then nods. “Of course. Yes. I’ll… I’ll get the bathroom ready.”

I don’t thank her. Just turn back to the mess like it’s the only thing I can control.

She hesitates in the doorway, watching us both, him, still half-unconscious and slack-jawed; me, crouched at his feet like a resentful nursemaid, and then disappears down the hall.

When she’s gone, I breathe again. But it’s shallow, ragged.

I pick up the bowl, wring out a towel, and start wiping him again. The sourness clings to his skin. He mumbles something, but I ignore it.

Then I lean close, my voice a quiet blade. “I found it, you know,” I whisper. “The diary. My mother’s. She was going to leave you.”

His eyelids twitch, a flicker of life that looks almost like a tremor of rage.

“She was planning it. And she would’ve, too. If you hadn’t taken that from her.”

I press the towel harder against his collarbone until his breath stutters, the sound wet and shallow.

“She had a plan,” I say again, leaning closer. “She was packing her things. Saving money. Dreaming about a life without you. And she would’ve made it, if you weren’t the coward, you are.”

His eyes shift, the faintest flicker under the film of age and sickness. I can almost feel the fury behind them. The man who once ruled a congregation, who preached obedience and submission while women knelt in prayer just to please him. That man is still there somewhere, trapped behind those eyes. I visibly smirk.

“You hate that, don’t you?” I murmur. “That she dared to imagine a world where you weren’t in control. You, the great Pastor Anderson. God’s chosen mouthpiece.” I let out a bitter laugh. “How small you look now. Not so holy, sitting in your own filth.”

His lip twitches. Just barely. But I see it. What’s left of the man who thought he could bend the world to his will.

It’s almost satisfying. Almost.

“Do you think God’s watching now?” I whisper. “Do you think He’s proud of what you made of me? Of what you made of her?”

I swipe the towel across his face one last time, rough enough to make him flinch. “I hope He’s watching. I hope He sees you like this, weak, rotting, forgotten.”

He exhales, a rasp that sounds halfway between a sigh and a curse. His hand twitches against the chair arm, fingers curling slightly, like even now he wants to raise it in warning, to command me to stop.

But he can’t.

And that, more than anything, sends a current loose inside me.

I stare at his hand, how it tries to remember power. How it still believes it holds authority.

Ten years ago, if I’d spoken to him like this, he would’ve grabbed me by the wrist, dragged me to my knees, made me apologize until my mouth went numb from it.

I’d have been called wicked. Rebellious. A stumbling block.

And then he would’ve prayed, hands tight on my scalp like a vise, until I believed God hated me as much as he did.