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As I’m driving the highway, the memory of the day my father decided he couldn’t stand to look at me anymore hits me. I was thirteen, and by then, I was used to the casual backhand slaps when I didn’t hold my fork correctly, shoves when I walked too close to him, a fist to my shoulder when I cried at my grandmother’s funeral. Men don’t cry, Luci. Men don’t show weakness.

But this day was different.

I was sitting in the living room reading a book with my legs crossed. My father walked in and stopped.

“Uncross your legs,” he said.

I did, immediately. But it was too late.

“Stand up.”

I stood.

His cruel body stalked toward me. I could smell the bourbon on his breath even from several feet away.

“You sit like a fucking girl,” he said quietly.

“I don’t⁠—”

The backhand came so fast I didn’t see it. Just felt the explosion of pain across my cheek, the way my head snapped to the side, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.

I stumbled but didn’t fall.

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice was still quiet. Controlled. That was worse than yelling.

He grabbed my shoulder and shoved me backward.

“You think I don’t see it?” He was in my face now, his breath hot and sour. “You think I don’t know what you are?”

I wanted to say I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wanted to defend myself. But the words wouldn’t come. Because part of me, the part I’d been trying so hard to bury, knew exactly what he meant.

His fist connected with my ribs.

The air left my lungs in a rush. I doubled over, gasping, and he grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head back up.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

I looked.

His eyes were cold. Empty. Like he was looking at something broken that needed to be thrown away.

“I can’t stand to look at you,” he said. Each word measured. “Do you understand that? I can’t stand the sight of my own son because you’re weak. You’re soft. You’re⁠—”

He didn’t finish. Just shoved me away like I was contaminated.

I hit the floor. My ribs screamed. I tasted blood.

“Your mother’s looking into boarding schools,” he said, straightening his shirt like nothing had happened. “In Scotland. Good education. Good for your future.”

He said it like he was doing me a favor.

“You’ll learn to be a man there. They’ll beat this out of you.” He gestured vaguely at where I still lay on the floor. “And if they can’t, at least I won’t have to see it every goddamn day.”

He walked out.

I stayed on the floor for a long time after he left. My cheek throbbed. My ribs ached with every breath. Blood dripped from my split lip onto the hardwood.

But all I could think was that I was being sent away.