Chapter 5: Letters, Lies, and Love Confessions

I tugged at him. “Dad, I saw it.”

He tried to wave me off, but I wouldn’t let go. I caught a glimpse of the angry red burn on his thigh.

“It’s nothing, just a little burn. I’m fine.”

He tried to sound tough, but his voice was thin. The burn looked raw and painful, the skin shiny and stretched.

But the burn was as big as a soup bowl.

I felt tears prick my eyes. My dad always acted invincible, but I knew better.

I dropped my backpack and burst into tears. “I’m not going to school anymore. I won’t, even if you ground me!”

My words tumbled out in a rush, choked by sobs. I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving him alone, not when he was hurt.

Dad slapped me hard.

The smack echoed in the tiny kitchen. My cheek stung, but the shock hurt more than the pain.

“If you don’t study, you’ll end up like your mom—”

He stopped mid-sentence, his face crumpling. For a second, I thought he might cry.

He suddenly stopped and slapped his own face, over and over.

The sound was sharp, desperate. I reached out, but he shook me off, mumbling to himself.

He went to the kitchen, muttering, “Girls gotta study to get somewhere. School’s good.”

His voice was rough, almost pleading. He shuffled to the stove, stirring the pot with trembling hands.

My dad’s a construction worker, always doing the toughest jobs for terrible pay.

He wore his exhaustion like a second skin. His hands were calloused, nails stained with paint and concrete. He never complained, not even when he was hurt.

I wiped my tears and went into the kitchen, pushing him aside. “Go sit down, your cooking’s not as good as mine.”

I rolled up my sleeves, taking over the stove. Dad grumbled, but he let me, sinking into the creaky chair by the table.

When I finished, Dad tossed a wad of cash on the table. He smiled and said, “Work injury payout. Not many good foremen these days.”

He pushed the bills toward me, pride and embarrassment warring on his face. “Don’t worry, kiddo. We’ll get by.”

“Dad’s cooking isn’t great, so I’ll give you a little more spending money—five a day, okay?”

He tried to sound cheerful, but I saw the worry in his eyes. He wanted to give me everything, even if it meant less for himself.

I was suddenly glad I hadn’t given that dollar to Chris.

I clutched the money, thinking how close I’d come to losing it. Maybe luck was finally on my side.

“No, three a day is fine.”

I shook my head, stubborn. We needed every penny for rent and groceries. Dad sighed, but he didn’t argue.

Dad gave me a look, then pulled a hair clip from his pocket.

It was cheap plastic, shaped like a butterfly, the kind you see at the checkout line in Walgreens. He held it out, hopeful.

“Saw other girls wearing these, so I got you one too. Like it?”

His hands were rough, but he held the clip delicately, like it was made of glass. I swallowed the lump in my throat.

Looking into his hopeful eyes, I smiled. “It’s cute. I love it.”

I clipped it into my hair right then, letting him see. His whole face lit up, pride shining through the exhaustion.

“As long as you like it, Dad’ll... never hit you again.”

He looked away, embarrassed, but I could tell he meant it. I hugged him tight, promising myself I’d never give him a reason to worry again.

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I don’t remember how long before Tyler came looking for me again.

The days blurred together, homework and chores filling every spare minute. I kept my head down, trying to stay out of trouble.

“Chris says he’s waiting for you at the school gate. If you don’t go, he’ll show up every day.”

Tyler’s voice was casual, but there was a warning underneath. I sighed, knowing I couldn’t avoid this forever.