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“Whatever you want, it’s your body,” he replied. “No one else can tell you what to get. It just has to mean something to you.”
I mulled over his words, wondering exactly what his tattoos meant to him.
???
I pulled into the driveway of the large white colonial style home with black shutters.
I should have felt like I was home, since this was where my parents lived, instead I felt like I had arrived at prison.
“Four days, Olivia. Four days. You can do this,” I coached myself.
I eased out of my car, as slowly as humanly possible, and stretched after the ten-hour drive. I had stopped a few times, but I wasn’t used to being in the car for a long time, and it had taken its toll on my body.
Normal parents would have probably run out to greet their child that they hadn’t seen since August.
Not mine.
No, my mom had probably slaved away over the perfect dinner and was cleaning up from that, while my dad sat in his leather chair, reading the paper for the second time today.
With a sigh, I grabbed my suitcase, and glumly made my way to the front door.
I knocked on the door since I didn’t have a key.
I heard the telltale slapping of my dad’s slippers against the hardwood floors and I flinched. I had hoped my mom would get the door.
“Olivia,” he said my name like it was the dirtiest word in the dictionary. “You’re late. Based on the time when you called, and where you were at, you should’ve been here ten minutes ago,” he looked at his watch. His black wire framed glasses were perched on his nose, his gray hair was longer than the last time I saw it, and his beard thicker.
I closed my eyes. “Sorry, traffic-”
“That’s no excuse, you should have called to tell us you were runn
ing late,” he snapped, while I still stood outside.
“I know,” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “I apologize.”
He stepped inside. “Stop standing outside. Your mom saved you a plate of dinner. It’s in the microwave. I expect you to eat it all and clean your plate after.”
“Sure thing,” I mumbled. My dad still treated me like I was an incompetent toddler. He even treated my mom the same way.
“What was that, Olivia?” He questioned and I felt his dark eyes searing a hole into my back.
He’d never wanted a child, he told me that all the time growing up, but he needed one for appearances. Other than that, I was a hindrance.
“Yes sir,” I managed to sound semi-polite, even though I wanted to chuck my suitcase at his bowling ball sized head.
I left my suitcase by the stairs, praying he wouldn’t yell at me for that.
I waited, but he said nothing and eventually, I heard the clacking of his slippers as he walked into the family room.
Taking a shaky breath, I stepped hesitantly into the large kitchen.
My mom was hunched over the large farmhouse sink, scrubbing away at pots, pans, and dishes by hand. We had a dishwasher but my dad wouldn’t let her use it. He claimed that they never got the dishes clean enough.
My mom looked up, sweeping a lock of dark hair from her face, forcing a smile.
She had aged so much, in a short amount of time; the toll of my father was heavy on her shoulders.
Her once bright smile was all but extinct and her shiny chestnut hair was dull and lifeless. Even her eyes, the eyes she gave me, were the same way, their copper color gone.
