Page 74 of Ask Your Mom If I'm Real

“You weren’t supposed to be home tonight, so I didn’t make any,” I replied. “You told me that you were ordering in and wouldn’t be home until very late.”

His eyes flicked to meet mine, and I knew I’d said the wrong thing.

Him getting out of his chair, oh so slowly, proved that fact.

“Just because I said that doesn’t mean that you don’t cook for us anyway,” he replied carefully, now walking toward me.

I didn’t bother to run.

Couldn’t.

There was nowhere to go.

I had no money.

No way to keep a roof over my and my daughter’s head.

The blow came.

I knew it was coming, and still wasn’t prepared for it.

The back of his hand met my face, right under my eye, and made contact so hard that my head spun. I fell to the ground, pain bursting to life as I tried and failed to clear my blurry eye.

“You have responsibilities, Merriam,” he hissed.

I did.

I knew I did.

Fuck.

“I’m sorry,” I lied.

I wasn’t sorry.

If I could poison his food and kill him, I’d still manage to screw myself.

The only thing that was keeping a roof over our heads was my dad’s tenacity in making a failing candy business work, and his refusal to give up.

That was, after all, why he’d ruined my life.

He thought that I could help him make it work.

I couldn’t.

There was no saving the business.

But he refused to see that and was taking me down with him.

“Where is your daughter?” he asked calmly.

I hated him.

I hated him so much.

“She’s at Mrs. Rawls,” I answered. “Keeping her company for the night.”

“You mean, watching her so you can go waste our hard-earned money on stupid shit you don’t need,” he said.

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