She cried quietly instead.
Her father would come back, she told herself. He would come back and this would be over. He would see. He would have to see.
But that thought led to another one she hated even more.
Why hadn’t he seen anything before?
The question rose slowly, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.
Evan Monroe loved his daughter. Lily never doubted that. He packed her lunches when Carol “forgot.” He bought her the purple backpack she wanted for sixth grade even though Carol said the plain black one on sale was more practical. When Lily had nightmares after her mother died, Evan sat on the edge of her bed until sunrise more than once, rubbing circles on her back with rough work-worn hands.
He loved her.
But love, Lily was beginning to understand, was not the same thing as paying attention.
He didn’t notice how Carol always corrected Lily in front of him but spoke to her with something colder when they were alone. He didn’t notice that Lily stopped asking friends over because Carol said the house wasn’t a playground. He didn’t notice that when Lily laughed too loudly, Carol would later say, “No wonder your teachers think you’re immature.”
Or maybe he noticed pieces and decided each one by itself was too small to fight over.
Adults did that. They broke bad things into tiny acceptable pieces until none of them looked big enough to matter.
By late afternoon, Lily’s throat hurt when she swallowed. She had finished the water Carol left and licked condensation from the inside of the empty cup before realizing what she was doing. She hated herself for that. She hated Carol more.
When Carol finally returned, the basement door opened and closed with brisk irritation.
“I told you not to shout,” she said as she came down.
Lily flinched at the sound of her voice.
