It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command. My mother didn’t protest. She never did. She followed behind with her arms crossed, face composed, as if we were walking out to check the mailbox instead of stepping into a ritual.
The driveway was bright and merciless. The air felt thick. April stayed near my mother, sniffling, making sure her face looked bruised even without bruises. My father paced, brick in hand, eyes flat. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. In our house, volume wasn’t authority. The threat of what came next was.
“I told you,” he said, “you don’t touch her.”
“I didn’t touch her,” I said. I heard my voice, thin but steady, and I wanted to be proud of that steadiness. I wanted to be. But I also knew what steadiness meant to them. It meant defiance.
April made a little sound, a wounded whimper, and my father’s eyes flicked to her face. He turned back to me as if he’d received confirmation.
