Page 4 of Cruel Promise

“You’re right, you’re right. I shouldn’t push. I just …”

“What?” We inch closer. I set our frozen dinners onto the conveyor belt. Chicken parmesan that the cover makes look delicious while I know, in reality, it will be soggy and un-flavorful.

“I just want to make sure you’re taken care of. In case something were to ever happen to me.”

My heart constricts for a second. “What would happen to you?”

She flashes me a bright smile. “Nothing. I just like to think ahead; that’s all.”

I know she’s lying to me, but I don’t push it because that’s not the kind of relationship we have. Since my father refused to respect our boundaries, my mother and I tend to go overboard trying to respect each other’s. It means we don’t always say how we really feel.

We pay for our frozen meals and then leave, neither of us continuing our conversation.

When we return home, I can tell something is wrong.

The front door is cracked open, and we left it locked.

“Get behind me,” Mom tells me, inching closer to the door. She pushes it open and ducks her head inside. “If someone is stealing from us, then please, just go.” To me, she says, “Call the police.”

I grab my phone and dial 9-1-1.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

Before I can give an answer, a man appears in our doorway. A man I know every well.

My father.

Mom screams right before he grabs her and yanks her into the apartment.

“We’re being attacked,” is all I can get out before my father grabs me and pulls me inside, ripping the phone from my hands. He smashes my phone to the ground.

The apartment is ransacked. The couch cushions are on the floor. The beautiful pieces of pottery my mom made are left in pieces. He must have smashed them. There’s broken glass everywhere.

“What are you doing here?” Mom asks.

Dad pulls out a gun and aims it at us. We both cling to each other as if that will somehow protect us.

It won’t.

We ran from my father, and now, he’s come to get us back.

“I’m here,” he says, “because you two bitches left me.” Spit flies out of his mouth. My father was never a conventionally good-looking man, with thinning gray hair and a heavy belly. My mom, on the other hand, is a classic beauty, with her blonde hair and soft features. She always told me she didn’t marry him for love but for safety.

And even that, he couldn’t provide.

“If you want money,” Mom says, “we don’t have any.”

“Of course, you don’t. I was always the one who had it. But I’ve fallen onto some hard times. I’m in need of money.”

“But you just said we don’t have any,” I say.

“Shut up,” he screams at me, making me flinch. Mom holds me closer against her.

“Don’t talk to her that way. You were always a horrible father.”

He gets right into her face, pressing the gun to her head and making her cry. “So, then, why did you marry me?” He pauses. “Oh, that’s right. Because you’re gold digger.”

“How can I be a gold digger when I left you and all your money behind?”

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