Page 17 of Branded
Then again that was my father.
“Kailey.” A whip of my name. “Speak.”
Like I was a dog, and if only that command would work, just to get the freaking man off my back.
Already I was sweating, moisture gathering in my armpits, between my breasts, trickling down my spine. My tongue was thick and dry. My throat swollen and closing more and more by the moment.
A sigh, nearly as whiplike as my name had been.
“I see this new job hasn’t improved your communication skills at all.” Another sigh and I could picture him with one palm flat on his kitchen island, fork in the other, cell pinned between shoulder and ear, his plate of chicken and steamed broccoli growing cold in front of him. Always the same food. Always so structured. Always growing cold as he yelled at me.
And then he wouldn’t even reheat it.
Because then the chicken breast would get tough and the broccoli mushy.
Not that he would stop calling me at this time.
It would deprive him of the opportunity to belittle me.
Which, look, I understood—not the belittling, because that was shitty and I might have anxiety and be shy and have trouble with socializing, but I was a human being and deserved respect. Being quiet, having difficulty speaking up didn’t mean I was stupid or weak, like he often insinuated. The part I did understand was that belittling was his tactic and he wouldn’t stop doing it.
It made him feel big or important or smarter than me.
Or maybe it was just so much a part of his personality that he wouldn’t ever stop it.
Or both.
Probably both.
“Are you even practicing the techniques I paid all that money for you to have from that overpriced therapist?”
He’d paid for five therapy appointments.
When I was thirteen.
He’d refused to come in for a parent meeting, had just told my therapist—in front of me—to “fix her” and then he’d left.
Five hours was not enough time to unpack what my father was.
It certainly wasn’t enough time to help me manage my anxiety.
But my therapist had tried, then had set me up with the counselor at school.
And I knew those five hours and the weekly twenty minutes with the busy school counselor had been the reason I’d gotten through high school.
Survived by the skin of my teeth.
Then a scholarship to Stanford, finding my groove with engineering and math, not being the smartest, but being surrounded by weird, smart people like me.
Online friends.
Classes that challenged my mind.
Helping me understand that I deserved the respect I hadn’t realized up until that point was so lacking.
Pulling back from my family.
Going to therapy again, this time paid for by my tech industry job. Picking up side projects for apps and websites that made my heart sing.
