He lifted the bag of peas. He inspected the cut, cleaning the dried blood with a wet paper towel. His hands, so capable of violence, were incredibly gentle.
“It’s stopped bleeding,” he said. “We should go to the ER just to be safe, get it glued shut.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whispered, tears finally spilling over. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry I hid the money. I just… I wanted to make it work. I wanted to save him.”
“You have a big heart, Elena,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “That is not a weakness. But you learned a hard lesson today. You can’t save people who don’t want to be saved. And you never, ever let someone treat you like a dog in your own home.”
He looked around the room. The table was still set. The turkey sat there, cold and half-carved. The wine was breathing in the decanter. It looked like a mockery of a celebration.
“What do you want to do with all this?” he asked, gesturing to the feast I had spent twelve hours preparing.
I looked at the food. It represented my servitude. It represented my desperation to please people who hated me.
“Trash it,” I said. “Throw it all away. The food, the plates, the wine. Everything on that table. I don’t want to keep anything that tastes like them.”
My father smiled. “Good girl. Go get your coat. I’ll take care of the trash. Then, I’m taking you to the hospital.”
Chapter 6: Freedom
Two Weeks Later
The wind on the porch was cold, but the beer in my hand was colder.
I sat on the swing of my father’s log cabin, wrapped in a thick wool blanket. My head was healing; the bandage was gone, leaving only a thin pink line near my hairline. A scar. A reminder.
My phone buzzed on the railing. I picked it up.
Bank Notification: Wire Transfer Received. $850,000.00.
I smiled.
The house on Maple Drive was sold. I had put it on the market the day after Christmas. It sold in a bidding war.
Mark hadn’t contested the divorce. He hadn’t contested the sale. In fact, his lawyer had called mine within 24 hours of the arrest to say that Mark would sign whatever I wanted, as long as he didn’t have to see my father again. He waived his rights to the house, the assets, everything. He was currently living in a motel on the edge of town, waiting for his court date. Agnes had moved back in with a distant cousin in another state.
My father walked out onto the porch, carrying a cardboard box.
“Pizza’s here,” he announced. “Pepperoni and jalapeño. Extra cheese.”
He set the box down on the small table between us and sat in his rocking chair.
“Much better than turkey,” I said, grabbing a slice.
