Page 55 of When Lemons Give You Life

“Think you’re pretty tough, don’t you?” he sneers.

“Leave him alone, Brent,” Mum sobs.

He slides his belt free with a slow, deliberate pull, daring me to flinch. But this time, when our eyes lock, something falters. His gaze snags on my bare arms—the muscle I usually kept hidden under sleeves, now on full display in my Bonds singlet—with a silent realization that I’m not the scrawny kid I once was.

He swings anyway, a clumsy, half-hearted blow, but I catch his wrist midair. I squeeze. Not hard. Just enough to see the panic flash on his face. I push him out into the hall.

For a moment, we’re frozen.

Then he snarls, yanks free and shoves me hard enough to make me stumble. “It’s your fault, you know! All of this. Me being here, having to do this. He wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for you. Your perfect bloody daddy.” The words hit harder than any punch, and he knows it. He paces the room in jagged circles, belt dragging from one hand, muttering under his breath. Then he swings again.

I dodge and slam him hard against the doorframe. “Touch her again, and I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

“You’ll what, princess?”

I haul him backward, out the door, until he hits the floor in a sprawl of limbs and rage.

He pants, eyes blazing, but doesn’t get up. He knows he has lost. “You know what?” he seethes, scrambling upright. “Screw this! Take her. Take your stupid sister too, you . . .” The rest dissolves in a rant, his mouth twisting, spitting words I don’t need to hear to understand. My pulse hammers as he shoulders past me into the bedroom, catching my forearm with the metal buckle—a parting shot that splits the skin and sends me to the floor. I lie motionless as he stomps about his room. I hear banging cupboards, slammed drawers and then silence.

I crawl to the bathroom and put my arm around my mother. Heavy footsteps clamber down the stairs and I spring to my feet, flooded with blind panic that he is going to take Lisa. I run, silently begging that she’ll stay safe, that the music will be louder than the abuse. The front door slams so hard the windows rattle. His motorbike growls to life, tearing down the street until at last it can be heard no more.

“Mummy!” Lisa’s small voice echoes from her room. “I’m hungry!”

My lungs fill with oxygen. Mum finally moves, grabbing her toiletry bag. All the makeup ads say concealer hides wrinkles and age spots; they never advertise that it works well on bruises too. I bandage my arm and pull a jumper on.

It’s the unspoken choreography Mum and I know by heart, because we’ve done this dance many times before. Hidden it all from Lisa.

I sit on the cold back step, too wired to stay inside, too wrung out to leave. The morning mist clings to the grass; I hunch over, arms on my knees, as the house holds its breath behind me.

Mum joins me a while later, two mugs in hand. She doesn’t look at me when she sits. Just passes over the tea and stares out at the bottlebrush trees. “I didn’t think you’d do it,” she says at last, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Someone had to. If he comes back, I’ll do it again. I’m stronger than him now.”

“I can see that,” she says, squeezing my bicep like she’s checking it’s real. A bewildered smile flickers at the corners of her mouth. “Where did these come from?”

I shrug, a bit embarrassed. “I’ve been lifting your bread flour bags.”

She lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh. “I always said you knew how to get the most out of ingredients. You’re going to change people’s lives with food one day, Griff.”

I almost smile.

She looks at her slippers, and it seems whatever brightness she managed to find drains away again. Her voice is no more than a whisper. “I don’t think he’s coming back this time. He cleared out his wardrobe. He’s never done that before.” She sips her tea. Her face is pale, pinched. Older somehow. “I should feel relieved, shouldn’t I? I keep waiting for that. But mostly I just feel . . . stupid. And tired.” She presses her palm to her chest. “I truly thought he was a good man when I first met him. But he was a monster; nothing like your dad.” Her eyes flick toward mine, then away again, and something shifts in her face.

Guilt slices through my gut.

“I kept thinking if I held it all together—one more night, one more week—I could outlast it somehow. I told myself it was better to keep things steady for Lisa. That it was a phase. That he’d calm down.” She glances at her tea. “It was never meant to be like this. I’m sorry, Griff. I didn’t mean for it to land on you.”

“But you—”

“I let you carry too much. And I knew it: I knew what he said to you.” She swallows. Tries again. “The names, the threats. I should have left him the first time he ever spoke to you that way, but I was afraid of what he’d do to us. I’m not strong like you or your father. I convinced myself it was easier to keep the peace, but I should have fought harder for you. For who you are. Griff, you’ve never been wrong for being yourself: not once, no matter what he said, okay?” She goes to touch my face but I turn away. “Oh god!” Her voice cracks. “I’ve really mucked up, haven’t I?”

I stare at the driveway and kick a fallen pebble away.

“Promise me you won’t tell Lisa,” she continues. “We’ve managed to keep it from her this long. It’s not too late for her. I don’t want her remembering this part.”

I stare at Mum, infuriated. “But she lived it.”

“She’s still a child. Let her have good memories. He never hit her, and we made sure she didn’t see what happened to us. She can grow up without the trauma.”