Page 6

I CAN FINALLY LIFT the soup. Rocking between my feet, I call out, “Order out!” Gabby whistles as I widen my stance, keeping my chin lifted to carry the massive pot to the pass for plating. Giuliano pauses a whole two seconds to watch me cross before returning to his lasagna with a disparaging head shake. I stifle the pride in my chest, allowing myself my moment; the fact he didn’t say anything at all is just as good as the praise he’ll never give me. I’m really doing it.

Maybe I can lift Mom.

“Thanks, thunder thighs.” Ben laughs as I drop the pot on the pass.

My heart stings, but I don’t allow him to see it, lifting my chest higher. Ben does a double-take at my glare. He gapes like he doesn’t know what to say, so I channel a little Remington through me, darkening my stare and lifting one eyebrow. He breaks into laughter, latching onto Paolo as he dashes by.

“Dude, look at Lily. She actually looks pissed.”

“Leave her alone,” Paolo snaps. Ripping his arm from Ben’s grasp, Paolo leaves Ben gaping.

He turns to me with wide eyes, and it’s my turn to huff out a small laugh. Hurt crosses his features just before I turn my back to him, returning to the stove.

“Behind.” I dash to Gabby’s side. She stops stirring three soups, allowing me to share the load.

Gabby leans in. “I was hoping you’d let that tough girl side out a little someday. Told you you’re a bombshell all around.”

I can’t stop smiling. Maybe I do have more courage in me than I thought.

I wish Remington was here to see it. My heart flips. I’m not sure if he’s technically my boyfriend now or what mutually liking each other “a lot, a lot” means for our weekly workouts, but I want to know more about him too. Does he also have sides of himself that he’s too afraid to show anyone? Does it have anything to do with why he almost never smiles with both cheeks?

But before I can see him again on Thursday, I need to visit Mom to make sure she’s okay. Last month’s visit was annoying but not terrible. Maybe it’ll go smoother this time too, now that I’ve learned how to respect my limits even more.

From the second I shift the car into reverse in my apartment complex’s parking garage to two hours later, when I’m hobbling on shaky legs in front of my childhood home, my stomach burns like hot acid, steeping in my anxiety. The choppy sidewalk to the front door seems to stretch into the distance, so I turn back to my car. I lean against it to reground myself, pretending I’m fetching my keys in my tote bag in case anyone is watching from the window.

No one comes outside to greet me. Dad must be napping. I know not to knock and wake him once he’s finally getting a chance to rest, so I slip my key in as quietly as possible.

But when I open the front door, Dad shuffles down the hall towards me. I stiffen from head to toe, gaping up at him.

He quirks one eyebrow with his smile, opening his arms. “Good morning to you too.”

I huff out a relieved laugh. “S-sorry. Hi, Dad.”

He pulls me in for a glomping hug, but I keep my side to him, busying my focus on removing my shoes and dropping my tote.

“How have you been, Lily? Mom’s been hoping to see you.”

My heart stings so sharply that I have to swallow it. Is Dad saying that to guilt me, or was Mom genuinely upset that I missed our usual time for a monthly visit last week?

My voice shrinks even quieter than usual. “Sorry, Dad. I’ve been really stressed with work.”

“Come in, come in. Go grab yourself a drink and settle down on the couch.”

He guides me down the hall with an arm over my shoulders, and I’m tempted to step back. I give him a soft laugh, lifting my refillable metal water bottle. “Thanks, Dad. I’m okay; I have water already. Where’s Mom?”

Releasing me, Dad points down the hall. “Resting in her room.”

I rush down the hall before he can catch up to me - even though I expect his footsteps clodding after me from behind.

Approaching my old bedroom still feels weird. I’m just grateful Mom and I were able to convince Dad that Mom needed her own room to sleep in for her sleep apnea machine - since it’s hard enough for Dad to stay asleep between caregiving. They’ve seemed to settle into this new setup, Mom happily watching sitcom reruns on my old, rattly TV from the late 90s. Her bed tray stands on the mattress over her blanketed legs, holding her phone and an old plate over her lap.

“Lilibeth!” Mom beams when she sees me. It’s not until I see her bulging eyes in hollow sockets that I can tell she’s thinner than last month. She opens her arms. “Hello, baby!”

I smile, fighting against my desperate need to cry. Side-stepping Mom’s wheelchair, I lean over the bed for a hug. Wrapping my arms beneath her back, I’m relieved by how toasty her pillow feels. At least she’s staying warm.

“Hi, Mom,” I mutter.

She hugs me as tight as she can. I don’t know if it’s my fears kicking in, but her grip feels looser than usual. What if tomorrow, the muscles in her esophagus prevent her from swallowing correctly, and she chokes and dies? What if this is our final hug?

Squeezing my eyes shut hard, I take a deep breath. I can’t think about that now.

Dad plops into the armchair beside Mom’s bed, and the leather groans in complaint. “Lily says the restaurant has been stressing her out.”

Mom gasps, releasing me. “What? What’s been going on?”

Shaking my head, I give them a light laugh. “It’s nothing new. Just regular work stress.”

“Is it just as busy as always? Even with how expensive those meals are?” Mom asks.

“Busi er . Sorry I couldn’t come last week.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine, sweetheart! Come, sit. Tell us what else is new.” Mom turns to Dad. “Honey, can you lower the volume so I can hear Lily better?”

Dad lays his head back on the armchair’s headrest. “You’ve got the remote right next to you, Lia.”

My jaw clenches tight. Mom reaches for the remote with a shaky hand, but I lean over her to grab it first. The TV snaps off with my hard press on the red button.

“Thanks, Lily,” Mom whispers.

I don’t meet Dad’s eyes, but I’ve memorized his body language enough to see his taut beer belly in my peripherals - a warning sign his patience is running out. I never know which minor insult will be the tipping point between his regular, stewing annoyance and a full-blown outburst, so the sight stiffens my shoulders.

Sitting on the bed’s end with my back to him, I smile at Mom. “I haven’t actually been up to much else. I made a new friend, but that’s it.”

Mom’s eyes brighten. “That’s it? That’s so exciting! You were just telling me it’d be nice to find more friends. It’s so hard to find more as a working adult, isn’t it? What’s her name?”

I giggle at Mom’s long string of thoughts. “He’s actually a guy. His name is Remington, and he’s my workout buddy at the gym.”

“Oh! How unexpected! That’s so great you’ve been able to get to the gym! I know how long you’ve been wanting to do that.”

But Dad straightens. “How are you affording it?”

My ribcage tenses. “My friend Gabby gave me a gift card—”

“Honey, she’s in her thirties. She can use her own money to take herself to the gym.” Mom snaps at Dad.

He clenches his jaw. “You think I like having to rely on our youngest daughter for rent?”

Mom gasps. “Joe!”

“What? It’s no secret.”

Mom scowls at Dad, ready to argue back, but I sit straighter. “And rent is almost due, I know, and I lost track of the days last week. I’m sorry to worry you. The envelope for this month is in my bag, by the door. I’ll get it for you in a minute.”

Dad stands. “I’ll get it myself.”

Rage simmers deep in my belly. My heart screams to chase after him, yell at him, rip my money from his hands - anything but continue to sit here like I have most of my life. But Mom’s shaking hand lands on my arm, reminding me I can’t. It’s not safe.

Dad takes care of everything alone. He’s generous and hardworking, but his patience will be tested beyond his limits if I don’t help them with rent. I’m afraid his temper tantrums will leak from just targeting me to also including Mom. What if he hurts her worse than he means to, like he’s done to me? Mom doesn’t have the youth or body I do. She might survive her disease despite suffering through it for the rest of her life, but if she sees what Dad’s really like when he gets angry, I’m afraid she could die from pure heartbreak.

“Ignore him. He’s just hurt that I gave him a hard time this morning,” Mom sighs. “Actually, Lilibeth, do you think you could help me to the bathroom? I think your dad accidentally forgot I asked thirty minutes ago.”

I can hardly school my fiery breath. “Thirty whole minutes ago? And he’s complaining about turning the TV off for you?”

She laughs. “Oh, Lily, it’s fine. He’s just an old, tired man.”

“It’s not fine,” I whisper.

“Okay, well, either way, I need to pee,” she laughs, and my shoulders soften. “And I rested a lot today. I might be able to stand just long enough to sit in the chair without him picking me up. I just need your help keeping steady.”

My stomach tenses. I open my mouth to speak, close it, then open it again, but the words won’t come out.

Mom’s whisper comes out desperate. “Lily, seriously, I need to go. Let’s try before he comes back. You know what they say - it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.” She laughs again, but I can’t even smile.

“Maybe I can give you and Dad a break soon. I’ve been working really hard at the gym. I think I can lift you now, Mom. ”

Mom freezes. Her placating smile is gone.

She glances at the open door over my shoulder. Her whisper softens even lower. “You really think you can?”

“Yes. Can I try?”

She waves me on. “Hurry, hurry.”

Scooping my arms beneath her emaciated torso and thighs, I breathe through my pounding, frantic heartbeat. I have to do this. Please, let me be able to finally do this.

But the second I have a good hold on her, we hear footsteps parading back down the hall.

Mom gasps. “Stop, stop, Lilibeth. He’ll be even more hurt–”

I pull my arms from her as fast as I can, but that’s easier said than done with how weak her core muscles have grown, unable to keep herself in place. I have to be careful not to carelessly roll her over, no matter if her bulging eyes zip from me, to the door, and back to me in pure panic.

But just as my hands slip out from under Mom, a voice appears behind me.

“What are you doing?”

I scour my mind for an acceptable answer, but Dad steps in front of me. I instinctively take hurried steps back, bumping into my old dresser and knocking over two of my collectible cat figurines.

Mom laughs. “No worries, honey. I just really need to pee and asked Lily to help.”

My heart feels like it’s been dropped in battery acid. Mom covered for me again.

“You should’ve just asked me to take you. I said I’d be right back.” Dad’s brisk tone remains sharp despite our efforts to pacify him. “Am I not doing something right, again?”

Mom gasps. “Joe, honey, stop. You’re doing wonderfully. Thank you for your help.”

Dad ditches Mom’s wheelchair, heading to the bathroom without it. There’s no reason to leave it behind, especially since it means Dad will have to lift Mom not only off the toilet, but also back to her bed, all while not allowing her muscles a chance to retain their strength.

But that’s exactly why he did it.

My internal switch shifts from fear to teeth-clenching anger. Without her chair, Mom can’t move around the house without Dad’s help. It took me a whole year to save for the chair - the only assistance I could afford for her, since I can’t afford a repeating payment for a caregiver after paying part of Mom and Dad’s rent. I’ll never forget how relieved Mom looked to roll herself forward a few feet. And how stern Dad looked, blaming it on the football game that day not going his way.

Dad never expected his life to go like this. To become Mom’s caregiver.

He hides his resentment from Mom, excusing his moods as fatigue or annoyance over minor problems they bicker through, but I know better: Dad expected to become more of Mom’s third child to clean up after, so no matter what we do to placate him, he feels like he’s been stolen from. For this destruction of their life plans to feel worth bearing, Dad needs to feel important - singularly vital to Mom’s survival. Whether it’s a wheelchair, extended relatives, or his daughters, Dad can’t handle our help.

But this wheelchair is Mom’s autonomy. If she has autonomy, Dad sees his efforts as wasted. Yes, he helps her night and day, expending every ounce of his focus and efforts to support her, but beneath the surface, I can’t help but feel it’s vile; he’d rather Mom have nothing if she doesn’t have him.

I’m not okay with that.

Lifting Mom’s wheelchair, I storm down the hall after Dad.

Mom laughs in the distance. “Besides, there’s so much to remember when it comes to me. You just forgot, so I reminded Lily, is all.”

Dad doesn’t respond.

He hears me coming behind him - I know it. But he won’t turn around, so the second he settles Mom on the toilet, I block the doorway with her wheelchair. “You forgot Mom’s chair.”

Dad’s neck tenses. “She doesn’t need it. I can carry her.”

“I bought it so you wouldn’t have to as often, and she could take herself around.”

Dad and I stare each other down. This is my cue to back down, but I refuse. The raging fire in my heart has grown too large to bear, and this has gone on for far too long. Not even Annabella, my estranged older sister, wants to talk to me anymore, thinking I side with Dad’s abusive outbursts by paying his rent. She always believed cutting Dad off was the only way to rescue herself, and therefore, anyone who associates with him has to go - no matter if I was the one person who truly understood what she went through.

But what the fuck else can I do? How else can I help Mom out of this imprisoning cycle, other than picking her up and running out the door?

Not even that will stop Dad from getting her back — he’s the only one who knows her caretaking routine, inside and out, and the only one of us who can lift her dozens of times per day. Mom is trapped here. Just like I was.

After looking back and forth between us from the toilet, Mom laughs, waving her hand at Dad to shut the door. “Oh, stop, you two. Let a poor old woman pee, won’t you?”

“You’re not old,” I mutter.

But Dad closes the door, bumping the wheelchair against my shins.

Without the bathroom light, the hallway dims. I can’t track Dad’s eyes.

But he simply points down the hall.

My heart beats so quickly that each pulse physically hurts. He’s about to snap.

But I won’t move. If I move away from this door, out of Mom’s earshot, he’ll be able to do much worse.

Clenching my fists, I lower to a whisper. “I just want to help Mom.”

“And not me, huh? We all know what you’re really saying. Even after raising you, your ungrateful sister, and my wife, I’m never doing anything well enough for your liking.”

Guilt creases my confidence, but I can’t show it. I won’t.

He puffs his chest. “I have this handled. You’ve done plenty, paying part of the rent for your feeble, old parents. You don’t need to keep playing the hero.”

Venomous words attempt to belittle me. It's working. It always works. It never stops hurting, no matter how silent or loud or strong or weak or obedient or rebellious I’ve made myself appear, just like Annabella. She attempted to overpower him with even bigger fits, but Mom only saw her teenage rage, and Dad knew how to avoid Mom’s gaze or guilt us into keeping quiet - until Annabella allowed herself to be the villain and “abandon” us early. I know she still hurts, even though she left. She was the abandoned one.

And secretly, I feel abandoned too. It never stops hurting because Dad never stops. He never will, not until the day he dies.

“I just want to help Mom,” I repeat myself calmly, like I’m talking to a three-year-old throwing a tantrum.

Dad steps closer, shooting my frantic heartbeat through the roof.

But Mom shouts from behind the door. “I’m done!”

I reach for the handle, but Dad sucks in a tight breath. I flinch away. Dad turns the doorknob to help Mom wipe, flush, and wash her hands.

Biting my lip, I force down hot tears. I can’t let Mom see me upset and make her feel even worse. Stepping into the shadows behind Dad’s back, I duck my head, using my bangs to keep my eyes out of sight. As my parents exit the bathroom, Dad’s tall shoulders hide me from Mom’s view. He strides down the hall back into my old bedroom.

Snapping out of my daze, I grip Mom’s chair, dashing down the hall with it. Even if I can’t lift her, I need this chair by her side. I need her to live - at least long enough for me to finally become strong enough to take her home with me.

But as I breach my doorway, Dad steps out first.

He closes Mom’s door.

“Is everything okay?” She calls through it.

“One second,” Dad calls back.

There’s an edge to his voice. Before he even acts, I know what’s about to happen: after bottling every minor insult or inconvenience in his life for months, his resentment has compiled high enough for everything to spill over in a seething rage.

Destruction clouds his eyes. He’s staring at the wheelchair, reaching for it. I gasp, shooting my hand in front of the chair.

“Don’t!” I cry.

He grips my hand instead. I freeze, zipping my focus to him to read every one of his minuscule facial shifts to know how to protect myself. But he hasn’t stopped scowling.

And he hasn’t let go.

Dad hasn’t physically hurt me in almost fifteen years, but the veins bulging on his forehead tell me I won’t escape today without it. Panic floods my throbbing veins. What’s he going to do next? Now that I’ve pushed him far enough to snap, I don’t know. I never know.

“You really think you can do this better than me? That I haven’t sacrificed my life enough for her? You know better - you’re not strong enough to carry her. Leave it to me.”

He grips even harder. I gasp, tempted to scream, but I don’t want to upset Mom. She worsens from stress. I pull at his fingers instead - struggling to tear them off me and prevent him from crushing my wrist and half of my palm with his wide grasp.

But I can’t stop him now either. I feel young. So feeble.

“Are you listening to me, Lilibeth? This is your final warning. Stop meddling,” he hisses.

Before I can stop myself, my face contorts into ugly, frantic tears. I’m breathing harder by the second, hardly able to choke out my words. “T-that h- hurts .”

Dad blinks, gaping as if he just realized his hand was wrapped tight around me.

Snapping his hand back, Dad’s eyebrows contort. “Shit, sorry, I— I didn’t mean to–”

When he meets my wide, panicked eyes, Dad can’t bear to witness how small he’s made me feel for more than a millisecond. Darting away, he leaves me to stoop over my hand, babying it to my chest. Dad dashes to the kitchen for wine, followed by the rattle of keys and a resounding thud of the front door slamming.

I release a slow, heaving exhale. Every heartbeat rips through my aching wrist and hand, but at least I’m okay. I’m alive.

“Lily, are you out there?” Mom’s fear squeaks from her voice, even from behind the door.

“Coming.” I use my jacket sleeve to hurriedly dry my tears and wipe my nose before pulling my other sleeve over my shaking hand. It hurts so badly that I’m too afraid to move it yet and discover how badly he damaged me.

Crossing my unharmed arm over me to awkwardly open the door, I shuffle in with a weak smile.

“Lilibeth, did you two have another disagreement?”

Dropping myself into the armchair beside her, I feel too heavy to move. Too weak to carry Mom. If I didn’t know Dad was drinking away his guilt on the porch, I’d force myself to jump back up and kidnap Mom to safety.

But either way, Dad sucked out every last flicker of energy in my cells.

“Sweetheart, don’t mind him. You know how he is, and it’s best to just not even start.” She sighs. “You know his dad treated him so badly, and it really changed your father. Thankfully, your dad’s nothing like his dad with those tremendous, alcoholic rages, forcing poor Elizabeth to replace every window in the house. At least your dad’s not abusive.”

“He is,” I whisper.

Silence hangs between us.

Fuck, I shouldn’t have said that.

As expected, Mom sniffles through tears. I rush to her side, but she’s still smiling. “I’m so sorry, Lily. I know he says hurtful things when he gets mad. I swear he doesn’t mean it.”

My lip wobbles. She still has no idea the extent to which Dad has hurt me, but even this breaks her heart. What if I don’t know how badly he hurts her either?

Either way, she hasn’t stepped back far enough to realize what I have; no matter Dad’s reasoning, there’s no reason big enough to lay a hand on us.

All I can do is hug Mom. Hold her while I can. “I almost have enough saved to take you home to stay with me and take the stress off you both. I’m sorry it’s taking so long.”

“Oh, sweetheart, stop being so hard on yourself. Look at me.”

I can’t. Keeping my head bowed and my throbbing hand limp in my lap, I pull back from our hug. Mom tucks my hair behind my ear.

“Lilibeth, I want you to live for yourself, not for me. Keep working your way up at that restaurant like you’re so good at, and forget about the rest. I’m happy for you that you’ve made a new friend. Can you tell me about him?”

I swallow hard, still reeling from my dad. My relationship with Remington feels like an entirely separate world, and I’m struggling to reorient myself in all of space and time. “He’s really sweet. Sweeter than anyone I know - other than you.”

Mom laughs. “Are you pregnant?”

Nothing reorients me faster than that question. I sputter out a laugh. “Mom, no! I still have an IUD, anyway.”

She laughs. “You just have this glow about you, but maybe it’s because you’re in love.”

Biting my lip, I giggle. “I– um– Well, we just officially scheduled a real date, but I haven’t felt like this before.”

Mom’s genuine smile ages her backward. I’m so relieved to see it that I settle into our conversation with loosened shoulders - and Mom has plenty of questions about Remington.

By the time I’m heading out the door, I regain a bit of the confidence Dad stripped from me. He tracks me as I pass by on the porch.

“Bye, Lily,” he mutters.

“Bye,” I grumble.

“Wait.”

I freeze on instinct, but I immediately regret it. Dad stands from his porch chair, and I allow myself to peek back despite rushing faster to my car.

“I said, wait, jeez.” Dad quietly chuckles, as if it could soften the blistering tension between us. He’s leaning over the porch railing, holding out an ice pack.

Staring into his worried eyes, I’m tempted to remind him why I need one at all. But I know what he’ll say: he snapped because I meddled, pushing him past his limits.

To spare myself further hell, I take the ice pack.

“Love you.” He gives me puppy-dog eyes.

Gritting my teeth, I open my car door and chuck the ice pack into the passenger's seat. “You too.”

I zig-zag a few blocks until I find a random enough street to stop where Dad wouldn’t expect to find me. It’s awkward to drive with one hand, especially making so many turns, but I’d rather be safe than see him pull up behind me ever again in my lifetime.

I wanted to drive home before the sun fully set, but I still feel like hell - a hangover-like exhaustion weighing down my chest, enough to prevent me from sitting straight. Plus, I need to assess the damage on my hand: whether I need to call in sick this weekend.

But as soon as I shakily spread my fingers, I heave a sigh of relief. I’ll definitely have bruises by tonight, but nothing is broken.

Tears spill. Not in sadness, but in an immense, building rage. It shreds through my panting breath, begging me to act.

I don’t know what to do when I get like this. How to let it out. I want to go back in time and smack Dad’s hands off me. Better yet, I want to punch him in his bitter fucking face.

I smack my steering wheel with my good hand instead, letting out a sharp scream.

Shock freezes me in place. I never hit things.

I’m not becoming like Dad, am I?

No, things have just changed. I’m not 18, I have my own place, away from Dad, and I’ve finally been working out.

And now I have Remington.

I’m not used to being treated like shit anymore.

My hands shake as I open our texts, tapping Remington’s number. It rings a few times as I struggle to breathe through leftover rage, and my stomach wavers. It’s past seven, so he’s probably at Club X. Maybe I should just let him work.

But just as I drop my phone from my ear, his low voice rumbles through the speakers.

“Hello?”

My whole body slackens. I drop my forehead onto the top of my steering wheel, raising my phone back onto my ear. “Hey, Rem. Sorry to bother you, I just– I just wanted to say ‘hi.’”

Distant shouts echo in the background of our call until it’s suddenly silent. With the rush of wind into the receiver, Remington softens his voice. “Sorry, I was still on my way outside. Are you okay? I’m really worried.”

My heart flips. “O-oh. How come?”

“Your nose sounds stuffy like it does when you’ve been crying. Did something bad happen?”

I exhale hard, closing my eyes. “I really don’t know how to explain.”

Remington hums. “That’s okay, sweet girl. I’m here for you, okay? Want to meet after my shift for a hug?”

Warmth floods my chest. It’s such a startling difference from the dark, hollow ache there that I need a second to breathe through it. When I can finally speak, my voice wobbles through soft, weeping tears. “I’m out of town, and I just needed to talk to someone I feel good around.”

Remington huffs through a soft laugh. “That’s too damn sweet. Now I’m dying to hug you even more. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “I’m excited to see you tomorrow.”

“I’m excited to see you too.”

I hang up with my smile restored despite my sore heart.