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“She’s not the same since you left.”
Understatement of the fucking century.
Rose’s stomach soured at the thought of what her father must have done to turn a vibrant teenager into a sullen and withered twenty-one-year-old. Or maybe it was something else. “She’s so thin... Is she ill?”
Her mom waved her hand out for Rose to go into the kitchen. She left her suitcase in the entry, glanced one more time up the stairs, and followed her mom back to the kitchen. She looked around the room that should have been the heart of the home but had been the scene of many of the darkest times in her life.
Not much had changed. The appliances were old and outdated. The tile counters were clean, but the gray grout had darkened over the years. The wood cabinets had been painted white. They brightened the kitchen but only made the scarred tan linoleum look even more worn.
The microwave on the counter had to be twenty years old, the toaster even more ancient.
“You’ve made a few changes,” she commented, hoping to ease her mom.
“Your father had a decent life insurance policy, but to make it last we have to be frugal. I’d like to replace the old appliances, redo the floor...” She trailed off, looking around the room like she could see what it could be. “It’s not important.”
“The cabinets look great. I’m glad you got rid of that old valance over the window. You’ve got a lot more light in here. And the new furniture’s nice.” Rose took a seat at the simpleround table with matching chairs. Her mom had added pale blue cushions on the seats, brightening the place even more.
Her mom pulled two mugs off the hooks under the cabinet and proceeded to make tea. When it was brewed, she brought the mugs to the table and set one in front of Rose.
The chamomile and spearmint scent hit her nose and took her back in time to every sad or bad thing that happened in this house that was followed by a mug of tea.
“This was probably the first new thing you bought for the house that he didn’t have to approve of first,” Rose guessed, rubbing her hand over the tabletop.
Her mom’s gaze met hers. “You always saw things so clearly.”
“Maybe,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t mean they ever made sense to me.”
“That’s why he went after you all the time. You had this way of cutting through things and stating the basic, most obvious thing that he didn’t want to hear or see. Why?” she asked on a whisper.
“Because he was wrong.”
“And you just had to be right.” The words were bitter and angry.
As if it were Rose’s fault for causing the fight. If she’d just let it go...
It still would have ended in a fight because that’s what he wanted.
But she couldn’t dismiss her mom’s stinging words. “I wanted him to acknowledge and understand that he was wrong.Hemade his life hell. Not me. Not you. Not Poppy. We could haveall been happy if he’d seen that what he was doing was tearing us apart and done something about it.”
Her mother took a sip of tea, then pinned Rose in her gaze again. “Don’t you think he knew that?”
“He used it to get you to console him. He wanted your sympathy and warmth and kindness to soothe his black heart. But it never did. Not for long. Nothing ever would because he didn’t want to change. He liked hurting us.”
Her mom slapped her flat hand on the table. “That’s not true.”
Rose rolled her eyes. “How can you defend him? You know it’s true.”
“He worked hard. He wanted the best for you and Poppy.”
Rose scoffed. “Seriously? If he wanted the best for me, then why were straight A’s not good enough? Why was getting all the scholarships and grants and getting into college not enough? Why was winning a race or a swim meet not enough? The way I looked wasn’t enough. The way I spoke. The things I did. The ideas I had... Nothing was ever good enough.Iwasn’t smart enough, kind enough, pretty enough. I wasneverenough!” It took her a second to realize she was leaning halfway across the table. She fell back in her seat and splayed her hands on the wood and tilted her head, a disturbing thought coming to mind. “Why did you replace the table?” She watched her mother’s eyes go wide at the softly spoken question that had nothing and everything to do with all she’d just said. “Mom?”
She didn’t answer, just stared at her lap.
Though Rose couldn’t see them, she knew her mother held her hands tightly clenched on her thighs.
She spoke without meeting Rose’s eyes. “He . . . Poppy made him very angry. She stayed out late . . . She was supposed to be home on time . . . He . . .” Her mother couldn’t say it, but it was written all over her face.
Rose had seen her father destroy things in a rage, but her mother’s face, her inability to say the words, and the fact she put the blame on Poppy... “Did he hurt Poppy for coming home late? Did he blame her for making him angry? Did he tell her that if she had just done what she was told, none of whatever he did would have happened? Did he scold you for raising a disobedient daughter?” She leaned forward again. “What did he do?”
