By the time I got home from the diner, the February sky over Dayton had already turned the color of old steel. I could smell Dad’s aftershave before I even saw him—sharp, medicinal, the scent he wore when he wanted to feel in control.
They were waiting at the kitchen table: Frank Carter with his thick forearms crossed; Denise Carter lounging with a wineglass; my sister Brianna tapping her acrylic nails against my pay envelope like it belonged to her. The overhead light buzzed, making everything look jaundiced.
“Put it here,” Brianna said, sliding a bowl toward me as if my money were leftovers.
I kept my coat on. My fingers were still raw from washing dishes, but my voice came out steady. “No. I’m saving. I need deposits for my own place.”
Dad’s chair scraped back. “Your own place?” He laughed once, dry and mean. “After everything we’ve done for you?”
Mom’s smile widened, lazy and cruel. “Parasites like you should learn to obey.”
The words hit worse than the cold outside. I looked at the envelope in Brianna’s hand—three hundred and twelve dollars, two weeks of aching feet. “I’m not handing over my salary,” I said. “Not anymore.”
For a second there was only the buzzing light. Then Dad moved. Fast. His palm came across my mouth, hard enough that my head snapped sideways and my jaw sang with pain. Something sharp cracked behind my lip. Warmth flooded my tongue.
I tasted blood.
Brianna gasped, not in horror, but in delight, like she’d just been entertained. Mom chuckled, a soft, ugly sound. Dad leaned close, breath hot with beer. “Your sister earns happiness,” he hissed. “You earn nothing.”
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