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I remained frozen on the floor of my bedroom, hoping I hadn’t broken anything—namely myself—and praying no one had heard the commotion.

When a knock sounded on my door, I jumped so hard pain spiked up my spine.

“Grace?” my mom called from the hallway. Her voice made me want to cry, made me want to dash to the door, throw it open and leap into her arms so I could weep out all my troubles. Until she added, “You can play the silent treatment all you like, but I will not let you starve yourself. Stop ignoring my knock and come out for breakfast. Right now.”

Wondering how many times she’d knocked, I scrambled to my feet, kicking off my shoes as I went. I was reaching for the doorknob when I remembered I was still wearing Ryder’s sweatshirt.

“I’ll be right there,” I called, ripping the cold shirt over my head and tossing it toward my bed. Then I glanced down to find I was wearing exactly what I’d had on last night when my mom had left for work. Hurrying, I changed into sweatpants and my own warm sweatshirt. Then I closed my window and exited the room, only to let out a squawk of surprise to find Mom standing in the hallway, resting her back against the wall opposite my door with her arms folded over her chest.

Pressing my hand to my chest, I rushed out the words, “What’re you doing?”

She pushed away from the wall. “I’m making sure you don’t starve yourself,” she muttered. Reaching out, she grasped my arm and manually walked me to the kitchen. I stumbled after her, glad I’d changed—not only because I now looked like I’d just crawled out of bed but because she surely would’ve been able to feel the outdoor cold on my other clothes if I’d kept them on.

When we entered the brightly lit kitchen, the morning sun streaming through a wall full of breakfast-nook windows, I spotted Barry already seated at the head of the table, reading a newspaper. I stumbled to a jarring halt—jerking Mom off balance. He didn’t even acknowledge my entrance but paused his reading to lift a forkful of biscuits and gravy to his mouth.

I wondered what I should do. Point and scream, “Pervert”? How could I confess to my mother what this harmless-looking man had done last night? And make her believe it?

“Sit,” Mom instructed, letting go of me so she could follow her own order, slipping into the chair directly to the pervert’s right. I usually sat to his left, across from her. But I didn’t even want to get that close to him today.

Mom paused and glanced up at me when I didn’t move, and that’s all the prompting I needed. I eased into the chair opposite her.

“Morning,” Barry murmured in my direction. The mere sound of his voice made me lose my appetite, not that I was hungry to begin with.

Mom reached for her own biscuit off the serving tray and split it open, looking more awake than she should after working half the night. As she buttered her biscuit, Barry turned the page on his paper as if absolutely nothing was wrong.

I chickened out. With everything so normal like this, with my mother home and Barry ignoring me, it was easy to convince myself everything really was normal.

Mom asked Barry to pass her the grape jelly, and he did so only to pause his reading to lovingly pat her hand and smile at her. Mom blushed and grinned back as if they were sharing some kind of secret passion from the night before.

I thought I might throw up.

Clearing her throat when she glanced my way, Mom must’ve seen something on my face that made me look as if I felt left out, because she suddenly included me into the moment.

“So what did you two do last night?” she asked.

I just stared at her, feeling empty and scared, unable to confess, I spent the night, running and hiding from your sick husband.

“We rented another movie,” Barry spoke up, answering for me.

I glanced over at him, and we finally looked at each for the first time since I’d entered the kitchen. His expression was completely void of all the emotion that had been in his eyes twelve hours ago.

“That’s nice,” Mom said. “What movie did you watch?”

Barry held my stare for another moment and then he looked at his wife and named off the very movie he’d asked me to watch with him.

He started talking about our father-daughter night together, casually spilling out all these lies until I couldn’t handle it anymore.

I stumbled to my feet, needing to escape.

Startled, Barry stopped yapping and both adults gaped at me.

“Grace!” Mom gasped.

“I’m going to go to my room.”

“But you haven’t eaten anything.”

“I—I already ate.” Covering my mouth with one hand, I staggered away, ready to flee.