Page 38 of Unbroken

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I say, leaning forward. “Is this some kind of self-deprecating bullshit?”

“What? No.”

The words slip out before I can stop them. “Ruthie,Jesus. You’re beautiful.” She is.

She gets shy, eyes darting away. Then she clears her throat and straightens up. “We should go.”

Of course. We should. But all I can think about is how wrong she is about herself—and how dangerously right she feelsbeside me.

"Yeah," I tell her. "We should."

But we don’t.

Instead, we order another round.

“I know your dad was an asshole," she says. "But I was too young… or maybe too self-focused to understand.” She sips her drink. There’s a little froth on her lip, and it’s adorable. “Tell me about your dad?”

So we’re going there.

"My dad was a biker," I say. “I don't mean the weekend bikers with leather vests and toy drives. I mean the kind who ran meth across state lines. People thought he was all chill because he never raised his voice, but the real reason was because his fists did the talking.” I shake my head. “And I was his fucking punching bag. He said I had to be ‘toughened up.’ That the world doesn’t spare weak boys. By the time I was ten, I could stitch my own eyebrow and lie to the ER nurse without flinching. By fourteen, I stopped crying when he broke something in me—because I knew it wouldn’t be the last time.”

I said too much. I’ve barely scratched the surface. I look away.

“He died when I was nineteen. Bike wreck. Drunk and fast and finally out of luck.”

I didn’t cry. I didn’t go to the funeral. I just stood in the kitchen, blood still drying on my cheek from the night before and thought:You finally did one good thing. You left.

“I’m sorry he wasn’t good to you.”

I shrug and bury myself in my drink. I’ve almost made my peace with it. “I used to tell myself he had a hard life, that he didn’t know how to deal with his anger. But now that I have a kid of my own, it’s harder for me to reconcile the wayhe treated me. Kids are innocent. They trust easily and love so hard.” I shake my head. “They deserve to be treated with love and respect.”

I pause.

The memory surfaces unbidden, like something half-drowned. The beer’s made me talk more than normal.

“I remember when I was seven. I dropped a glass of milk—barely touched it, and it slipped right out of my hands. He didn’t say a word. Just grabbed the broken pieces and threw them in the trash. Then he made me kneel on the kitchen floor until my legs fell asleep. One of them was cut on the broken glass. Said I needed to learn consequences.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ruthie glares.

My voice goes quiet. “I remember how cold the tile was. I remember the sound of the clock ticking while I tried not to cry. That sound stuck with me longer than the pain. I mean, I got the damn milk because I was thirsty.”

There’s a silence between us now—thick but not empty.

She reaches her small hand out to mine and rubs her thumb gently across the top of it. Her nails are short, unpainted, and shaped in soft ovals.

"I’m sorry," she says, and I know she means it.

Mariah was the one who helped me when I struggled with my own anger. When I was frustrated that Luka wouldn’t sleep, when he had his first tantrums—throwing things, shouting "No!" She would lay her hand on my arm and say, "Walk away. I’ve got this."

She stayed calm. Always calm. She learned that early—she had to. She was the one who took care of her mom and her sister. I learned patience from her.

“Mariah was so patient,” I say, my voice shaking. “I hated that my first impulse was toward anger. I had to walk away. But Mariah explained that when you're raised like that, it’s harder to break the cycle. It becomes second nature. You have to willfully break the chain. Learn. Do better.” I shrug. “And she was right.”

I blow out a breath. “I pride myself on the fact that, to this day, I’ve never raised my hand to my son. Not once. I’d rather be too lenient than someone who takes his anger out on a child.”

"I agree," she says. "He’s not spoiled. He’s a small child. You’ve given him guidelines and discipline. Discipline doesn’t have to involve pain or shame." She shakes her head. "It’s almost like we had the opposite childhoods," she says. "You already know whatIgrew up with."

I do. Her mother was too sick to care for the kids. There were nights they didn’t eat—food insecurity was constant. They lived in a dilapidated apartment they could barely afford, not until Mariah started working to help keep them afloat. I would’ve married her when we were barely twenty. She wouldn’t marry me until Ruthie was old enough to stand on her own and we could get her mother the help she needed.

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