Page 7 of Beautiful Cruelty

The name on my birth certificate, from parents who didn't want me. The name that marks me as different in every family photo, at every school event, and in every conversation whenever someone asks about my "real" family.

Each time I look at the family photos on the wall at Dad's house, I can't help but notice how I stand out—the only blonde in a family whose hair is jet black.

The worst part is, after Mom passed from her battle with cancer, Freddy’s words started to feel real. When he accuses me that I don't belong, I hear that little voice in my head agreeing with him. Maybe if they hadn't adopted me, they would have had more money for Mom's treatments. Maybe Dad wouldn't have gotten so stressed that his dementia started getting worse.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Walking over to the sink, I turn the water on, and start putting dishes inside. Water splashes my blouse, but I barely notice.

"If you’re not going to help, Freddy." I grip the edge of the sink, not turning around. "Then get out."

“Don’t tell me what to do in my fucking house.” Freddy's voice drips with contempt.

"If it's your house, then do your part and help clean it!” I spin around, water dripping from my hands. “Help Dad. Fix him a meal. Change him into some clean clothes. Spend some time with him, instead of coming here to steal whatever the fuck isn't bolted down to pay for your gambling fix."

“Yeah that’s what I thought.” Freddy sneers, and that’s when I realize my lips are still pressed in a line.

I didn’t actually say a damn thing at him…

I just stood there, staring, andimaginedmyself yelling.

“Two years you’ve been fucking that banker, and not a single goddamn penny to show for it.” He starts heading for the door. “I don’t know what the fuck he sees in you. Maybe he just likes having a fucking doormat to wipe his shoes on when he comes home at night.”

Freddy always knows how to hurt me, even if he doesn’t know the full truth.

“Don’t you ever talk to me like that again, Lacey," he spits as he rips the front door open. "He's not your father."

"At least I treat him like one!" I yell, for real this time.

But it’s too late.

The front door slams so hard the windows rattle. Through the kitchen window, I watch Freddy storm to his car and peel out of the driveway.

Once I calm myself down with a few deep breaths, I walk over the fridge, grab a couple of eggs, and bring a small pot of chicken broth to boil.

My hands shake slightly as I whisk them into the steaming chicken broth, watching golden ribbons form in the clear liquid. The familiar motions ground me: crack, whisk, pour in a slow stream, just like Mom taught me.

"Here you go, Dad." I set the bowl of egg drop soup in front of him. "Careful, it's hot."

Dad eats in silence. When he’s done, he sets his spoon down, and studies my face with that same concerned look he used to give me when I was little.

Even with his memory slipping away, he can still read me like an open book.

"I'm fine, Dad." I swallow hard against the lump in my throat and answer his questioning silence. "I’m just tired. I've had a rough morning. If you’re done eating, let’s get you into some clean clothes."

He lets me guide him up the stairs, one step at a time, watching me with concern in his eyes as I help him change. Then, I bring him back down into the living room, sit him on the couch in sight of the kitchen, and start cleaning.

Despite my efforts, a tear falls silently on a plate, and another follows. Soon they're streaming down my face, dripping onto the dishes I'm trying to clean. But I don't dare make a sound as I cry.

I grip the edge of the sink, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Everything hurts. Nathan's betrayal, Freddy's words, Dad's silence, and the constant reminder of Mom's absence. It all crashes over me like a wave, and I can't hold it back anymore.

I want to bawl my eyes out—to scream and cry and shout that it's not fair. But I can't.

It doesn't take long for the dishes to finally be done, each one dried and put away where Mom used to keep them. My hands are wrinkled and raw from the hot water, and that's when I start on the rest of the kitchen.

I scrub every surface until my arms ache, working methodically from one end of the kitchen to the other like Mom taught me. The familiar scent of lemon cleaner fills the air as I tackle layers of built-up grime, letting the mindless work numb everything else away.

By noon, the kitchen's clean, and I take a seat next to dad on the couch. Despite my best efforts, my eyes close from exhaustion.

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