Page 176 of When the Storm Breaks
If part of her is innocent in all this.
She stares at me, wide-eyed, like she’s seen a ghost. The silence stretches—heavy, brittle—until she finally speaks.
“Haiyden…”
There’s something cautious in her voice. A note of warning just beneath the surface.
I can barely look at her.
“I didn’t know you remembered the way home,” she says with a strained laugh.
She tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
She doesn’t want me here. That much is clear.
“Are you okay? You look tired.”
I don’t want small talk or her shallow concerns. I don’t want to pretend. I just want this to be over.
“Is Dad here?”
She hesitates. Less than a second—but it’s enough.
“He’s in the living room,” she says quietly. Then, softer—like it might change something—”Please don’t start anything tonight.”
I turn and walk away, leaving her in the kitchen, gripping the towel like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
My footsteps are quiet as I move through the house.
When I step into the living room, it’s dim, the only light coming from the TV. I don’t cross the threshold. Just stand there, half in shadow, watching him breathing like nothing’s broken.
This room used to feel safe. Willow and I spent hours here—building pillow forts, watching movies, spreading out across the couch when we were sick.
Now it’s cold. A memory with the air sucked out of it.
My dad’s exactly where I knew he’d be—sunk deep into his chair, drink in hand, ice clinking quietly against a glass.
I can smell the whiskey from here. And for a second, I crave it.
The numbness.
The way it used to quiet everything down.
He doesn’t look up right away. Just sits there, like always. Like this is stillhishouse, and I’m just passing through.
When he finally glances over, there’s no surprise on his face. Barely even recognition. But there’s something—a flash ofirritation, maybe—before he turns back to his drink and swirls it slowly.
“Well, well,” he says, like it’s a joke. “Look who finally crawled back.”
There’s no anger. Just condescension.
Like I’m a stray dog that bolted and came limping back when it realized it couldn’t make it on its own.
I keep my distance, watching.
“Took you long enough to grow a spine,” he says. “Thought you’d go your whole life without one.”
This is the pattern. It’s typical. He’s always owned the conversation. Owned me.
