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I hated looking at my mom and knowing what my dad had done to her. I didn’t know what to do to help her. As a child, I begged her to leave him, but she was scared. I knew that’s why most people stayed in abusive relationships. Fear was crippling.
“How’s school, Liv?” She whispered my nickname. My dad hated for me to be called anything but Olivia.
“It’s great,” I sighed, reaching into the sudsy water to help her clean.
“You don’t need to help me,” she scrubbed at a dish that looked pristine to me “Eat something. I’m sure you’re hungry,” she nodded towards the microwave.
“I’m fine, let me help you,” I pleaded.
She didn’t reply and I took that as my cue to continue cleaning.
I helped her dry off the dishes and put them away.
“I better get in there with your dad,” she said when the last dish was put away, her voice was barely above a whisper.
I nodded. He’d come looking for her soon. After she finished cleaning the dishes he expected her to sit in the family room with him.
I warmed up my dinner and the smell of homemade food elicited a growl from my stomach.
I sat down at the dining room table with my plate.
The table was so clean that I was pretty sure those CSI guys wouldn’t be able to find a fingerprint on it.
I ate my dinner slowly, because if my dad thought I had eaten too fast, I’d be scolded for that.
He was always looking for things to complain about.
A piece of lint.
A pea in his carrots.
You name it and he’d find a way to whine about it.
I made sure to eat every morsel on my plate, which wasn’t hard, because it was delicious, like everything my mom made. But I’m sure my dad didn’t bother to tell her it was good, he never did. He only told her what she did wrong, not what she did right, and the same with me.
He couldn’t be pleased, simple as that.
I cleaned, and dried my plate, stacking it in the cabinet. Although, I was tempted to put it in the dishwasher just for spite, but since I was afraid of his reaction, I didn’t.
I stepped into the family room, my hands clasped behind my back.
My mom didn’t look up from whatever it was she was knitting, which was normal. She was expected to be a meek submissive wife.
My dad flicked the newspaper down, eyeing me.
I knew I wasn’t allowed to speak first, so I waited for him to address me.
“Yes?” He finally spoke, his voice booming.
“I finished my dinner and cleaned my plate. I’d like to be excused for bed,” I said, staring him right in the eyes.
He flicked a hand, and just like that, I was dismissed.
I walked slowly until I was out of his line of vision, and grabbed my suitcase, carrying it upstairs.
I closed my bedroom door for a moment of peace. The only time I was allowed to have my door closed was when I was changing.
I checked my phone and there was a text from Trace.
