Page 25 of Unraveling with You

But I won’t move. If I move away from this door, out of Mom’s earshot, he’ll be able to do much worse.

Clenching my fists, I lower to a whisper. “I just want to help Mom.”

“And not me, huh? We all know what you’re really saying. Even after raising you, your ungrateful sister,andmy wife, I’m never doing anything well enough for your liking.”

Guilt creases my confidence, but I can’t show it. I won’t.

He puffs his chest. “I have this handled. You’ve done plenty, paying part of the rent for your feeble, old parents. You don’t need to keep playing the hero.”

Venomous words attempt to belittle me. It's working. It always works. It never stops hurting, no matter how silent or loud or strong or weak or obedient or rebellious I’ve made myself appear, just like Annabella. She attempted to overpower him with even bigger fits, but Mom only saw her teenage rage, and Dad knew how to avoid Mom’s gaze or guilt us into keeping quiet - until Annabella allowed herself to be the villain and “abandon” us early. I know she still hurts, even though she left. She was the abandoned one.

And secretly, I feel abandoned too. It never stops hurting becauseDadnever stops. He never will, not until the day he dies.

“I just want to help Mom,” I repeat myself calmly, like I’m talking to a three-year-old throwing a tantrum.

Dad steps closer, shooting my frantic heartbeat through the roof.

But Mom shouts from behind the door. “I’m done!”

I reach for the handle, but Dad sucks in a tight breath. I flinch away. Dad turns the doorknob to help Mom wipe, flush, and wash her hands.

Biting my lip, I force down hot tears. I can’t let Mom see me upset and make her feel even worse. Stepping into the shadows behind Dad’s back, I duck my head, using my bangs to keep my eyes out of sight. As my parents exit the bathroom, Dad’s tall shoulders hide me from Mom’s view. He strides down the hall back into my old bedroom.

Snapping out of my daze, I grip Mom’s chair, dashing down the hall with it. Even if I can’t lift her, I need this chair by her side. I need her to live - at least long enough for me to finally become strong enough to take her home with me.

But as I breach my doorway, Dad steps out first.

He closes Mom’s door.

“Is everything okay?” She calls through it.

“One second,” Dad calls back.

There’s an edge to his voice. Before he even acts, I know what’s about to happen: after bottling every minor insult or inconvenience in his life for months, his resentment has compiled high enough for everything to spill over in a seething rage.

Destruction clouds his eyes. He’s staring at the wheelchair, reaching for it. I gasp, shooting my hand in front of the chair.

“Don’t!” I cry.

He grips my hand instead. I freeze, zipping my focus to him to read every one of his minuscule facial shifts to know how to protect myself. But he hasn’t stopped scowling.

And he hasn’t let go.

Dad hasn’t physically hurt me in almost fifteen years, but the veins bulging on his forehead tell me I won’t escape today without it. Panic floods my throbbing veins. What’s he going to do next? Now that I’ve pushed him far enough to snap, I don’t know. I never know.

“You really think you can do this better than me? That I haven’t sacrificed my life enough for her? You know better - you’re not strong enough to carry her. Leave it to me.”

He grips even harder. I gasp, tempted to scream, but I don’t want to upset Mom. She worsens from stress. I pull at his fingers instead - struggling to tear them off me and prevent him from crushing my wrist and half of my palm with his wide grasp.

But I can’t stop him now either. I feel young. So feeble.

“Are you listening to me, Lilibeth? This is your final warning. Stop meddling,” he hisses.

Before I can stop myself, my face contorts into ugly, frantic tears. I’m breathing harder by the second, hardly able to choke out my words. “T-that h-hurts.”

Dad blinks, gaping as if he just realized his hand was wrapped tight around me.

Snapping his hand back, Dad’s eyebrows contort. “Shit, sorry, I— I didn’t mean to–”

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