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Emily

Twelve years earlier.

“Quick, sweetie, put away your toys.” Mom’s voice is clipped as she rushes around tidying the already pristine rooms. Removing any signs that our home is lived in.

My heart hammers as I scramble to scoop up my dolls and shove them into the toy box in my bedroom.

Dad will be home soon. Play time is over.

I pause in front of the hallway mirror to check my reflection. I smooth a stray lock of my long blonde hair and ensure my dress looks presentable enough on my way back to join Mom.

I shift from foot to foot, eyes flicking to the large clock above the fireplace. There’s still time—maybe half an hour—but we never take the risk of not being ready and waiting. Not after the last time. “Don’t make him angry,” she whispers, her voice calm but firm.

What mood will he be in tonight?

Mom tries to keep me distracted by playing games like I spy and quizzing me on math questions. I think she asks me about math because it’s my best subject at school, so it’s easy to get the answers right and it gives her a chance to praise me. She’s the best like that.

“You’re so smart, baby girl! I’m so proud of you,” she says with a smile, tucking that wayward strand of hair behind my ear again.

A wide grin stretches across my face as her comforting words fill me with warmth, chasing away the lingering worry I always experience waiting for Dad to get home.

We never know what to expect. Sometimes it's okay; he's had a good day and as long as we are good enough, he won't get angry.

On the worst days, it almost like he wants us to do the wrong thing.

Crunching leaves signal his approach. Each loud, stomp through the fallen pine needles driving dread through my chest. Dad storms in, the hinges rattling on his forceful entry. My stomach sinks; when he’s already in a bad mood, it doesn’t take much to upset him .

A snarl erupts from his throat and Mom steps before me, shielding me from his anger, as she has always done.

“Can I get you a beer? Or would you like to wash up for dinner first?” She asks in a soft, measured tone. She doesn’t show fear, but her usually sweet scent picks up with a bitter edge.

Dad growls. I can’t see his face from behind Mom, but I’m sure his brows are furrowed, eyes dark and mouth twisted in a grimace.

I hold my breath, waiting to see what will happen next, only releasing it when he storms off, muttering to himself.

As soon as he leaves the room, Mom rushes to get dinner on the table.

I stand still. Rooted to the spot as my breathing slowly returns to normal.

He never hits me, but I know the importance of not upsetting him. Mom will pay the price if my toys are left out or I’m too loud. She does her best to protect me from how he treats her, but I’m not stupid.

I hear everything. The dull thuds of his hits, her muffled screams, the smashing of plates and cups.

They think he doesn’t leave visible bruises, but I see enough.

The way she pulls her sleeves down to stop me from seeing the bruises on her wrists.

I’m not na?ve enough to think the scarves she wears during the height of summer are a fashion statement.

I asked her once why she stays. She said you can’t leave your mate. Fate doesn’t get things wrong. I wouldn’t have you if I hadn’t listened to fate. The tears in her eyes made it clear how much she hates me being exposed to it.

So, I pretend everything is okay. I make sure I tidy up after myself and get good grades. I keep out of the way. I stay quiet. Seen but not heard.

I can’t stop him from hurting her.

But I can make sure I don’t cause it.