Page 139 of The Pucking Wrong Man

I was six years old, and I could smell the scent of scrambled eggs and bacon from my bedroom. It smelled so good, and my tummy was growling. As I walked into the kitchen, I heard the soft sound of my mommy crying.

“Mom?” I called out, my small voice trembling.

She turned to face me, and I froze. Her right eye was swollen and dark, a large black bruise marring her usually kind face. Her smile, the one she always tried to put on for me, was strained and filled with pain. She quickly wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, trying to compose herself.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she said, her voice shaky but gentle. “Breakfast will be ready in just a minute.”

“Mom, what happened?” I asked, my eyes wide with worry and confusion. I had seen her hurt before, and I hated it.

She forced another smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s nothing, Camden. I just...I bumped into something.”

I think she was lying to me.

Dan walked in and sat at the table without saying anything to either of us. Mom quickly made him a plate, trembling as she set it on the table in front of him. I watched as she stood by his chair, her hands clasped in front of us, her shoulders all droopy.

My stepdad never even said thank you.

I came back to the present, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin. My chest tightened, and the room seemed to close in around me.

“What are you doing?” I snapped, louder and harsher than I’d intended.

Anastasia froze, her smile faltering. “I...I just thought I’d make us some breakfast. You make it every morning, and I wanted to let you sleep in.”

“Don’t!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “Just...don’t do that.”

Her eyes widened, filling with tears, and I flinched. Fuck. Guilt washed over me like a tidal wave. “Anastasia, I’m sorry,” I said quickly, stepping forward. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

She wiped at her eyes, her hands trembling. “I was just trying to help, Camden.”

I took a deep breath, struggling to steady myself. “I know. It’s not your fault. It’s just...seeing you in the kitchen like that. I can’t handle it.”

She looked at me, confusion and hurt mingling in her eyes. “You can’t handle me making eggs? I’m not that bad of a cook.” She was trying to joke, but her voice was still pained.

How had I messed up this badly?

I swallowed hard, the words catching in my throat. The only person I’d told this to was a therapist.

But Anastasia deserved to know.

“My stepdad,” I began haltingly, “was abusive. He turned my mom into a maid, forcing her to do everything for him, and he’d hurt her if she didn’t. She’d cook breakfast with a black eye, trying to act like everything was normal. I’d find her on the floor as a little boy, black and blue and bleeding. My mom left him once, and when she couldn’t find a job, she went back. She just served him her entire fucking life.”

“She’s still with him?” she asked softly, the tears still glistening in her eyes, but her gaze steady.

I glanced at the floor, shaking my head, and trying to clear the fog of memories. “She died of cancer when I was fifteen...still serving him until the end,” I added bitingly.

“Camden, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. We hadn’t even gotten into what had led her to the streets or what had happened to her family. And here she was trying to comfort me after I’d freaked out.

She was such a freaking sweetheart.

“It’s a major trigger—seeing you doing things for me. It brings back all those feelings of helplessness and rage. I don’t know how to handle it,” I admitted, brushing some moisture out of my eyes that had no business being there.

She stared at me for a second and then rushed over and threw her arms around me, burying her face in my chest. I slowly put my arms around her, giving her a chance to back away if she was still mad that I’d snapped at her.

But she just burrowed closer.

A gut-wrenching moment later, I realized she was sobbing into my shirt.

“Baby girl, I’m so sorry,” I murmured, absolutely hating myself. I wanted to reach into my chest and tear out my heart. “I’ll never yell again. I swear.”

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