ONE
LUCY PARKER
I hearthe front door open and close, and I glance up from my textbook as Dad sets his briefcase beside the small table near the door. He shrugs out of his suit jacket, hangs it neatly on the coat rack, then loosens his tie while he looks around the living room. His eyes stop on me at the sofa table.
“Lucy, why aren’t you helping your mother with dinner?”
I look down at the textbook and notes spread in front of me. I should’ve put everything away before he got home. “Sorry, Dad. I was studying for a test I have tomorrow.”
His mouth tightens as he walks toward me, his dress shoes clicking against the hardwood. “I don’t know why you’re wasting your time going to school.”
Here we go.
I lower my eyes to my notes because he likes it better when I don’t look directly at him during these conversations.
“You’ll be married soon enough,” he says, stopping at the edge of the table. “Then all of this will have been a waste. A wife’splace is taking care of her husband and children, not chasing a degree she’ll never use.”
My fingers tighten around my pen. He talks about my future as if it's already been decided. I'll get married, have children, and spend the rest of my life taking care of everyone else. Never mind that I spent two years taking dual enrollment classes so I could graduate high school with my associate's degree already finished. Never mind that I'm one semester away from becoming a registered nurse. None of that matters to him. He only tolerates school because the scholarship pays for it and I still live at home.
Arguing won’t change his mind. It never does. It only makes him angry, then he reminds me how much he provides and how lucky I am to have a father who cares what happens to me.
“It would’ve seemed ungrateful to turn down the scholarship,” I say quietly. “And I need something to do with my time.”
He gives a short laugh that makes me wish I’d kept my mouth shut. “You need someone to put all that energy into.” He leans down and kisses the top of my head. “A good husband. A home of your own. That’s what you should be focusing on.”
I hold still until he straightens.
“Until then, you can help your mother.” He turns toward his chair in the living room. “Go give her a hand with dinner. She’s been working hard all day.”
“Yes, sir.”
The answer comes without thought. I close my textbook and stack my notes before sliding everything into my backpack.By the time I stand, Dad is already sitting in his chair with the evening paper open in front of him. He doesn’t look at me again.
I carry my backpack into the kitchen, where Mom stands at the stove stirring spaghetti sauce while ground beef cooks in a pan beside it. She glances over her shoulder, and her expression changes when she notices the bag hanging from my shoulder.
“I told you I’d handle dinner so you could study for your test,” she says.
“It’s okay.” I set my backpack beside the kitchen table and roll up the sleeves of my cardigan. “I don’t mind helping.”
Her gaze stays on me for another second. She knows Dad sent me in here. I know she knows, but neither of us says it.
The sink is full, so I turn on the water and start washing the dishes. Mom moves around the kitchen behind me, draining the meat and checking the pot on the stove. For a little while, we don’t talk.
Then she steps beside me and gently pulls my hair over my shoulder before the ends can fall into the water.
“You’re such a good girl,” she says. “Your father’s right, you know. One day you’ll have your own home to take care of. That’s what matters most.”
I stare at the plate in my hands.
Good girl.
I’ve heard those words for as long as I can remember. I don’t sneak out or talk back. I’ve never dated anyone, and I’m always home when Dad expects me to be. I help Mom without complaining because that’s what a good daughter does.
Lately, I’ve started wondering what happens if being good never makes me happy.
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
