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“Nuh-uh!” She rolled onto her stomach and screamed into the rug.
I hated seeing her like this—I fucking hated it. But there was nothing I could do. I needed to work, and she needed to go to daycare. My hands were tied.
Her arms and feet flailed around, the veins popping in her neck. Her face began turning more purple than red, and a fucked up thought crossed my mind.
How long could she go on screaming and crying like this before she lost consciousness?
Look, it’s fucked up. I know.
But I was just so fucking tired, and she was just so fucking loud.
I ran my hand over my hair, disheveling it even more as I let out a long sigh. The wrong parent died. As much of a bitch as Meredith was, she would’ve known how to handle this. I always felt like she was a better parent—except when she pretended like Emma didn’t exist so she could work late. Or when she got annoyed when Emma was a baby and was too needy.
Okay, so maybe we were both just shit parents and Emma deserved far better than either of us.
“How about we get some ice cream after school?” I asked. She shook her head, rubbing her forehead against the rug. That had to burn.
I rested my hand on her back and she let out another banshee screech. I yanked it back and closed my eyes, trying to pray for patience.
Fuck you, Meredith.
Nope. That wasn’t praying for patience. That was definitely cursing my dead wife.
“You know you have to go.”
“No!”
I took another deep breath.
I couldn’t lose my shit and yell at her. As terrible of a father as I was, I knew not to yell at my three-year-old. She was the child, and I was the adult—even if I didn’t feel like it.
Even if I wanted to yell at her—and Ireallyfucking did—I couldn’t. I’d done it once and the terror and betrayal on her little face made me want to fucking die. From that day on, I vowed to never shout at her again.
But she tried my patience every second of every day.
She couldn’t grow up thinking angry men were the norm, I reminded myself. I’d be damned if I ever let her get hurt at the hands of an abusive man because I couldn’t control my own damn temper.
With that thought in mind, I rolled my shoulders, readying myself.
“Em, come on, baby.” I kept my voice low and soothing, hoping it would help. “Miss Iris and all your friends are excited to see you. Don’t you want to see them?”
“No, Daddy! No!” She banged her fist on the carpet again, harder than before, and screamed louder. “Ow!” She rolled onto her side, cradling her little hand against her chest.
“Oh, baby.” I ignored her scream as I dragged her to her feet. “Let me see.” She held her injured hand in the other and extended it toward me.
It looked fine.
I glanced up at her, my heart breaking at the sight of that little lip jutting out, her big, brown eyes teary.
I sighed.
“I guess you should stay home since you hurt yourself, huh?”
She nodded pitifully, but the corner of her mouth tucked up.
Yes, I knew she had me wrapped around her finger. And you know what? I didn’t really give a shit.
She’d gone through enough in her young life than most adults had gone through. Losing her mother at three and having to deal with me as her father? Yeah, I’d be a fucking wreck, too.
