Page 82 of Broken Deal

“Your mom didn’t want you to know. And honestly, I didn’t see the harm—Amelia has been keeping to herself for the most part.”

“What do you mean?”

“When she showed up with Miles at first, your mom was confused, but Amelia didn’t offer much of an explanation. But then she showed up the following night with a bag of clothes, and your mom let her in. I wasn’t there—it was my day off. I think your sister asked your mom when I wouldn’t be around and took the opportunity.”

“Bailey,” I groan, frustration seeping into my voice. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Your mom asked me not to,” she replies, her voice small. “But then Miles showed up drunk?—”

I interrupt her. “She doesn’t make the decisions, and you know that. This was extremely irresponsible and reckless. Now look at where we are.” Without waiting for a response, I turn and walk away, needing some much-needed space from everything and everyone.

I search desperately for a corner—anywhere I can finally unleash the tears that have been building up since this morning. Spotting a door markedEmployees Only, I try the handle anyway. It opens, and I slip into a small room lined with shelves filled with medical supplies. I close the door behind me and slump against it, sliding down to the floor. The tears spill out uncontrollably, flooding through me in a wave I can’t stop. Sometimes I gaslight myself andsay I’m exaggerating. That I’m acting like an overprotective, annoying daughter. Then I remember all I witnessed during my childhood, all she went through that led her to this bad anxiety, the things that trigger her attacks, and I lose my shit all over again. The memories I try to erase with every fake smile are still so fresh in my mind, it’s like living in a constant nightmare.

Amelia is crying, so I wrap my arms around her, placing her head against my chest, trying my best to stifle her cries. Hehatesit when we cry. The screaming is so loud, I can’t hear my thoughts. Please, God—or whoever is up there—make this end. Let it stop at the yelling. I can’t handle this anymore.

“Amelia,” I whisper. My body is shaking, and I don’t know how to make it stop. “I need you to stop crying. Please,” I beg.

“W-w-hy is h-he y-yelling a-a-t M-mommy?” she asks between sobs.

“I don’t know, sweetie. But we have to be quiet, otherwise, we’ll get in trouble.”

Her whole body stiffens at my words, but at least she stopped sobbing now. I release a small sigh of relief.

We should be safe now.

I hear angry steps growing closer and closer to my room. My heart instantly drops. There’s no way he heard us.

“Ronald, please, leave the girls out of this,” I hear my mom cry out as the door flies open. We don’t keep any locks on any of the rooms anymore. My father took them away when I locked myself in my room once and refused to come out.

“You!” My father seethes, pointing and stalking toward me. He grips my forearm so tightly, and I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. I refuse to cry in front of my father or show any emotion to him for that matter. I have to be strong for Amelia. For Mom. For myself.

“Where was your mother today?” he screams in my face, thestench of alcohol hitting my nostrils, which is no surprise. He gets paid on Fridays and always goes out, disappearing on us to God knows where.

“She was here with us all day,” I reply honestly, trying to control my shaky voice.

He grabs my other forearm now, shaking me. “Bullshit! Stop lying to me.”

“I’m not lying.” My voice is small now, but still controlled.

Mom truly was here with us all day. Amelia has been complaining we haven’t done anything fun this summer, and all we do is stay home. But I heard Mom talking to Nanny over the phone the other day. She was complaining we were so broke, we can’t even afford groceries. That’s why we’ve been cooped up in this forsaken house all summer.

He lifts his hand, ready to slap me, but Mom gets in the way and screams. “Stop! Please, I’m begging you, Ronald. Stop.”

My father’s bloodshot eyes bulge in fury. “You want to defend your whore of a daughter? You’re going to regret that decision, stupid bitch.”

I never understood why he loved calling me horrible names. He claims I look like Mom, and since in his eyes she’s a whore, I guess I’m a whore, too, by extension.

He fists her hair and drags her out of my room to theirs, leaving the door open. Amelia’s sobbing fills the air, not letting me think. I’m too terrified to move, too weak to pull him off her. So I stand there, paralyzed, as I watch him shove her against the wall and hit her over and over again. The sickening sound of bones breaking and blood splattering is all I can hear now.

Blood. There’s so much blood. And I don’t know what to do.

I shut my eyes as hard as I can, forcing myself to push down the horrible memory.

That night, when he finally passed out, I had to convince her to go to the hospital. I had hoped she would tell the truth.Instead, she lied and said she got mugged and refused to press any charges, claiming she couldn’t see who the person was since it was so dark. I resented my mom so much that day, but the older I grew, the more I understood. Abuse was all she knew by then, and like so many victims, she lived in constant fear, convinced there was no way out. It might sound harsh, but I thank my lucky stars every day that my father died. Because if he hadn’t, I know exactly where my mom would’ve ended up—in a body bag. The thought alone threatens to tear me apart.

I press my palm to my mouth, trying to stifle my sobs. Ihatethis. Ihatethis crawly feeling. Ihatethe memories being here brings. Resting my head against the door and looking up, the room’s bright, white lights are blurry as tears still escape me. This is what happens when I bottle everything up and I can’t hide it anymore. I’m so pathetic. I’m supposed to be strong, to be out there and plaster a smile on my face when Mom wakes up. But I need a moment to feel sorry for myself. I need a moment to let the inner Sophia, the broken one, come out andfeelfor once.

After a few minutes, I finally start to calm down. I pull out my phone to check my reflection on the camera. I look like a mess—puffy eyes, disheveled hair, everything. This isn’t the usual put-together Sophia, and it annoys me. But that doesn’t stop me from drying my tears as I start counting backward, always hoping it will help.

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