“What is the matter with you?” Dad asks from the kitchen.
He bangs dishes around, attempting to make me breakfast. On the ride home from Veseud, I told him I was too tired to eat. As usual, he didn’t listen.
He didn’t say much on the drive. But I know it’s coming. The blame, the guilt, the brunt of his frustration at my carelessness. For behaving irrationally. Behaving like Mom.
Even the good fortune of connecting with a long-lost relative can’t let him forget his perpetual disappointment in me.
I start up the stairs without answering.
Dad traipses over the tiles, a frying pan still in his hand. “My own daughter on the verge of a scandal. Unbelievable!” He raises the pan.
For a minute, I wonder if he’ll hurl it at me. I pause mid-step. He’s never hit me before, but could he? Mom never would’ve let me come if she believed he was violent. Still, his temper is unpredictable.