Chapter 6: The Cost of Defiance

After eight o’clock, my dad staggered home.

The air changed when he walked in—a sour stink of booze, a storm brewing. I tensed up, bracing for whatever was coming.

He grabbed me, almost pulling me down.

His grip was rough, yanking my arm as if I was a rag doll. I bit my lip, waiting for the next blow.

Dad happily told me he’d won money today—over a hundred bucks.

His voice boomed through the house. “Guess who hit the jackpot at the slots, huh?” His breath stank of cheap gin and cigarettes.

I played along. “Dad, you’re so lucky! Can you give me that hundred?”

I tried to make my eyes wide, my voice sweet, but my heart hammered in my chest. Please, just give me something to work with.

My dad suddenly stopped, then slapped me across the face.

The slap was sharp, ringing in my ears. I stumbled back, blinking away tears I refused to let fall.

“You little punk, you dare ask me for money?!”

His face twisted in rage, spit flying from his mouth. I held my breath, trying not to cry.

After being hit, I quickly backed away. But once my dad’s anger flared up, it wouldn’t stop until he’d beaten someone.

I edged toward the kitchen, keeping my eyes down. I knew the routine—there was no escape once he got going.

My mom ran over to shield me. My dad took off his shoe and whipped her with the sole.

She threw herself in front of me, arms outstretched. The slap of the shoe echoed, her sobs rising over his curses.

Another sleepless night.

The walls closed in, the clock ticking past midnight. I stared at the ceiling, bruises throbbing, wishing I could disappear.

After my dad got tired of beating us, he calmed down and the food got cold.

He slumped onto the couch, snoring soon after, leaving the kitchen wrecked and the food untouched. The silence was worse than the shouting.

My mom and I were driven to the kitchen and still had to fix snacks for him to drink with.

We scrounged for anything—stale crackers, a handful of peanuts. My stomach twisted with hunger, but I forced myself to keep moving.

There was nothing left in the house but a few peanuts.

I swept the crumbs into a bowl, wishing for just one more can of beans, one slice of bread. Anything.

My mom looked at the empty cupboard and once again, through tears, said she wanted to go home and be a rich girl again.

Her voice was softer this time, almost defeated. She leaned against the counter, hands shaking as she wiped her eyes.

But this time, my dad heard her from outside.

His shadow loomed in the hallway, the door creaking open just enough to send a chill down my spine.

[Don’t let your dad know you’re looking for your relatives. He wronged your mom and your grandpa, and he’s afraid of payback.]

[If he finds out, he’ll definitely hurt you both.]

I felt my heart skip. The comments felt like warnings from angels, but maybe I was already too late.