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“We’re not related,” Oz says, his tone glacial and laced with warning.
“You’re brother and sister,” Bruce argues.
“No, we’re not. We’re not biologically related, and we’re not siblings. You married Etta’s mom, that’s as far as our familial relationship goes. We didn’t grow up together, we never shared a home for longer than a few days. We never acted, felt, or treated each other like family until the day I slid this ring on her finger and made her my wife in front of God, a judge, and witnesses. We’re not doing anything wrong, and I will not have you in our home, casting doubt over our fucking marriage.”
“You’re both my kids,” Bruce says, still continuing to argue, even though his protests are weak and entirely untrue.
“No, we’re not. You stopped being my father the day you cheated on my mom, and Etta has a dad, and it’s not you.”
A part of me wants to interrupt and let Bruce know that I do appreciate all he’s done to be a good stepfather to me over the years, but my feet are rooted to the spot and my mouth feels so dry I swear I can taste sand.
Bruce makes a grunting, protesting sound, but my mom speaks over him before he can say anything more.
“Bruce, they might be our kids, but Oscar is right, they’re not actually related,” Mom says, her tone oddly rough, like she’s having to force the words out, even though her expression is still calm and neutral.
“It’s wrong, she’s your sister, she’s your sister,” Bruce says, his voice raised in an outraged cry.
“I think you should leave,” I say, finally managing to find my voice.
“What is wrong with the two of you? Is this a cry for attention?” Bruce shouts, his face red and his eyes bulging.
“You heard her, get out of our house,” Oz demands, pulling me with him as he storms across the room, yanking the door open and nodding his head toward it.
“No, we’re not leaving. We’re going to sort out this mess as a family. You can get an annulment and we can all forget this ever happened. Henrietta can move home, and we’ll never talk about this…whatever this is again. We’ll go back to just being one big happy family.”
The longer Bruce talks, the tenser Oz becomes.
“Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Our. House. And. Never. Come. Back. You’re. Not. Welcome. Here,” Oz says, forcing each word past his gritted teeth.
When Bruce opens his mouth to speak again, Oz starts to move forward, and my mom rushes to her husband’s side, speaking to him quietly. Whatever she says must permeate the bubble of stupid Bruce is floating around in right now, because with a huff, he guides Mom out of the door.
The moment they’re outside, Oz slams the door shut and spins around to face me. I want to go to him, but my feet stay rooted to the spot, like someone built an invisible wall between us.
“Etta,” he growls.
Holding my hand up, I close my eyes, needing a moment or ten to process what just happened. What Bruce said was awful, but the way he reacted was just a slightly worse version of what I was expecting. But it was my reaction that makes me want to cry. I just stood there. I let him say all those awful things, and I just stood there while Oz defended us.
“Etta, look at me,” he demands.
Shaking my head, I dip my chin, so ashamed and disgusted with myself.
“Wife, you better open those eyes and look at me right this fucking minute or so help me…”
My eyes snap open before he can finish his threat. He’d never hurt me, I know that, but I hate to hear that tone in his voice, like he’s disappointed in me.
“Come here,” he demands the moment my watery eyes find his.
Wet, shame-filled tears rush from my eyes, rolling down my cheeks, making him blurry but no less perfect.
“Little One, don’t cry, it makes me feel crazy when you cry.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the words sad and wet-sounding.
“For crying?”
“For being pathetic.”
“You’re not pathetic,” Oz snaps.
