Glancing anxiously at the clock, the mother turned to her daughter. “Did you feed the dog?” she asked. Katie nodded, her own eyes flicking toward the hands on the wall clock. It was almost six in the evening, which meant her stepfather would be walking through the door any minute.
After every shift, he came home angry and starving. Anyone unlucky enough to cross his path got a full helping of insults and, sometimes, worse. “Go to your room, Katie. Frank will be home any second,” her mother whispered.
She glanced again at the clock, making it clear that the safest thing was to disappear before he came in. “I’m not going anywhere, Mom,” the girl said firmly, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table.
“I heard everything last night after he got home. I’m done pretending this is normal. I’m not going to sit here while he talks to you like that and puts his hands on you.” Her mother gave a tired little smile and shook her head.
“You know we can’t stop him. If your brother were home, Ben would stand up for us. Honestly, I’m almost glad he enlisted when he did.”
“At least he doesn’t have to play human shield anymore. Are you planning to take his place? Please, Katie. Just go to your room,” her mother said, her voice tight with fear.
But the high school senior had made up her mind. She wasn’t going to give in this time. Her mother was terrified of her own husband, the man she had once let into their lives believing love and stability might change him. Instead, the years had only made him meaner, more unpredictable, and harder to live with.
The key scraped in the lock. Her mother went pale and motioned again for Katie to leave, but the girl only shook her head. Their curly poodle, Max, shot under the old couch. He knew the routine. The second the front door opened, the scary man would come in—the one who might kick him or throw whatever was close at hand.
Both of them sat frozen, staring toward the hallway as the thud of heavy work boots echoed from the entry. Then came muttered cursing about shoes left in the way. A moment later, a broad-shouldered man lumbered into the kitchen, peeling off his grease-stained work shirt and tossing it onto the linoleum.
His wife rushed to pick it up while he skipped washing his hands and dropped into his chair at the table like a king taking his seat. “Food,” he barked, slamming a fist onto the tabletop.
The girl across from him flinched but kept quiet. Her mother hurried between stove and table, setting down a bowl of hot soup and then a plate of rice with a slice of bread. “What, no meat again?” he said darkly, as if it were some mystery why meat almost never made it into their grocery budget.
“There isn’t any, Frank,” his wife said softly, trying her best to stretch what little they had. “It’s expensive right now. You know that.” “And whose fault is that?”
