Page 38 of Daddy's Dirty Little Secret

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AMELIA

The kitchen felt quieter than usual as I worked to set the table. Dad stood by the counter, pulling out half-empty bottles of liquor, trying to look like he was contributing to the Easter brunch preparations. It wasn’t much. He couldn’t help with much these days.

“I’ll pay you back for all this,” Dad mumbled again, breaking the silence as he wiped a glass clean. I didn’t look at him when I responded, focusing on arranging the plates and silverware. The soft clink of the dishes seemed louder than it should have been.

“It’s fine, Dad,” I said, trying to keep my tone even. I had paid his light bill last week, bought all the food for today. I wasn’t expecting anything in return. But it was hard not to feel bitter. He said he’d pay me back every time, and every time, he didn’t. It wasn’t just about the money—it was about him not being the man I used to know. The man who’d take care of things.

“You don’t have to do all this, you know,” Dad added, his voice lower this time. He set the glass down and rubbed his face. “I’ll get back on my feet soon. I’ll figure it out.”

I stayed silent, not trusting myself to say anything. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t believe him, that I knew how muchtrouble he was in. But I didn’t. It wouldn’t help. It would just make him retreat further into himself.

I set the napkins down carefully, trying to keep my movements steady. “Dad,” I said, voice quieter, “Are you sure you’re okay? After what happened with the car…with those men watching you?”

He stiffened but quickly masked it with a casual shrug. “I’m fine, Amelia. Nothing to worry about.”

I didn’t believe him, but I couldn’t force him to admit the truth. He was trying to protect me, I knew that much. But it wasn’t working. I couldn’t just pretend everything was fine. Not after what Godwin had said about Victor Hayes.

The doorbell rang, cutting through the tension. I looked at him, but he had already gone to answer it. I heard Aunt Julia’s voice as she greeted Dad, then Aunt Claire’s softer one following. The usual chatter began to fill the house lightening the mood, and I hoped it would shift the way I felt about the entire situation.

My aunts swooped in like they always did—coats barely off, voices already high and warm, arms flung around me before I could dodge them. Lipstick kisses on my cheek, powdered cheeks against mine.

“Look at this table,” Aunt Julia breathed, touching a napkin fold like it was a piece of art. “Amelia, you outdo yourself every year.”

Aunt Claire stepped in behind Julia, her arms full of a covered dish and that worn canvas tote she brought to every family gathering. She smiled at me like I was still ten years old and winning spelling bees. “Oh, sweetheart, this is just lovely,” she said, setting the dish down. “You have such a gift—really. Your mother would’ve been so proud.” They shed coats and settled in, voices overlapping as chairs scraped and plates clinked.

Dad lingered near the counter, fingers tapping against the side of his glass. He watched us for a moment, then cleared his throat and crossed the room. He pulled out a chair slowly, like he was unsure if he was allowed to sit, and eased into it with a tight smile, eyes down.

My aunts filled their plates like they hadn’t eaten in days. Aunt Julia hummed as she scooped up eggs and sweet potatoes, the way she always did when food met her approval. “This ham,” she said, fanning herself dramatically, “Amelia, it’s divine. You really do too much.”

My aunt Claire gave my hand a quick squeeze before reaching for the rolls. “Your mother would be proud,” she said softly, not looking at me when she said it, which somehow made it worse.

They passed dishes back and forth, praising the balance of seasoning, the way the carrots still had bite, how the green beans “weren’t mushy like some people make them.” My hands stayed busy—straightening a fork, refilling water, pretending I wasn’t unraveling inch by inch.

Dad sat hunched at the far end of the table, nodding along, swirling what was left of his drink. He hadn’t touched his plate. His smile flickered on and off, like he was trying it out and still hadn’t decided if it fit.

My aunt Claire passed Dad the breadbasket and asked in a soft tone, “You holding up alright these days?”

Dad nodded, slow. “Yeah. One day at a time.”

Julia reached for her glass. “It’s still so strange without her, Laurence. Easter was always her favorite, wasn’t it?”

Dad smiled, faint and far away. “She’d be chasing everyone out of the kitchen by now.” I winced at the mention of my mother. They didn’t have to say her name and it still hurt.

They laughed briefly. I kept my eyes on my plate. The steam rising from the ham made my stomach turn. I shifted in mychair, trying to breathe steady. When Dad said, “She’d be proud of you,” I nearly gagged.

My mom would be appalled by my father’s behavior lately, and the idea that he wanted to speak for her frustrated me. I gripped the edges of the wooden chair I sat in and scowled at my plate as nausea made my stomach roll. It’d been this way for days, and I’d been blaming it on that breakfast sausage last week, then my nerves, then the disagreement I’d had with Xander.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Aunt Julia asked as she slathered butter on her breakfast roll. “You look green.”

I forced a tight smile and reached for my water. The glass felt too cold in my hand, slick with condensation.

She pointed at the sausages piled on the platter in front of her. “I used to love these,” she said, laughing softly. “When I was pregnant with Max, I couldn’t even look at one without gagging. Morning sickness hit so hard, I had to open all the windows just to make it through breakfast.”

The room felt smaller suddenly. My stomach flipped, then tightened like it was holding something in.

She went on, still amused. “And that was it. Never again. Haven’t had one since.”

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