Chapter 4: Broken Homes and Burnt Dinners

I quickly told my stepsister that Dubai’s a foreign country and she should have a man with her for safety.

She just scoffed. “What, you think my mom’s gonna meet some old prince and ditch your dad?”

“Madison, you’re just as sneaky as your dad!”

“If my mom finds a rich prince, we’ll settle in Dubai and leave you two behind, ha!”

I gave up. There was no reasoning with her. I’d have to be smart about this.

That night, my dad and stepmother came home one after another.

My stepmother moaned about her back, and my dad rushed to rub it. She said she was hungry, and he glared at me. “Did you make dinner yet?”

It was always like this.

I brought out the food, but my stepmother just sighed. “We eat this every day. Never see lobster or king crab. My friend’s always bragging about her fancy meals—why is my life so bitter?”

Her best friend had married a sixty-year-old retiree with a pension, but my stepmother still found a way to brag and complain.

My dad, hearing this, glared and slapped me. “Why didn’t you buy king crab?”

My cheek stung, but what hurt more was how normal it felt—like this was just another Tuesday.

I swallowed my anger and forced a smile. “I haven’t gotten my paycheck yet.”

“No paycheck? Can’t you borrow? Can’t you get a loan? If your mom starves, I’ll beat you to death! Go buy it!”

He kicked my chair, glaring at me.

After I went outside, I punched the wall, hatred burning in my chest. I regretted clinging to family so long, never fighting back. It only made them worse.

My phone buzzed. A text from my dad: “Didn’t mean to hit you. Buy better food. If you can’t get king crab, get abalone. If you don’t have money, borrow from friends. Your mom has to eat well.”

Same old routine—hard, then soft.

I sneered, bought some dead abalone, and before going home, threw them on the ground, watching them get filthy. Only when they were dirty did I feel satisfied. I dusted them off and brought them home.

Inside, my stepsister must’ve told them about the Dubai prince. My stepmother was giddy at the thought of a rich man, but my dad looked nervous. “That place… is it safe?”

I remember driving my old Chevy home, knuckles white on the wheel, slamming it at the red light. Buying seafood I couldn’t afford, just to keep the peace. That’s what life was: keep paying, keep smiling, hope nobody calls the cops when the yelling gets too loud.