“You will sit there until I decide you’ve learned.”
The younger girl looked at the dinner roll on the floor.
She was too frightened to reach for it again.
The older girl could see one side of her face through the gap between chairs.
There was a faint mark along her cheek.
Not from being struck.
From sleeping against the carpet the previous night.
Her mattress had been removed from her bedroom.
Another punishment.
The older girl squeezed her eyes shut.
Her mother noticed.
“What is wrong with you tonight?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re acting strange.”
The older girl looked toward the hallway.
Nothing.
Her stepfather had said he was coming.
Where was he?
The stepmother leaned forward.
“Give me your phone.”
The older girl froze.
“What?”
“Your phone.”
“I don’t have it.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed.
“You always have it.”
“I left it upstairs.”
The stepmother pushed her chair back slightly.
The younger girl flinched beneath the table.
The older girl felt panic rise.
If her mother stood, she would see the phone.
If she took it—
Everything would disappear.
The evidence.
The call.
The older girl put both hands flat on the table.
“I’m sorry.”
Her mother paused.
“For what?”
“I was rude.”
The stepmother studied her.
The older girl forced herself to continue.
“You’re right.”
“About?”
“She needs consequences.”
Under the table, the younger girl looked up.
Her expression broke.
The older girl saw it.
She nearly lost control.
The stepmother smiled.
“Exactly.”
The older girl looked toward her stepsister and silently mouthed:
I’m sorry.
The child looked away.
The older girl felt sick.
Her mother relaxed into the chair.
“You’re finally old enough to understand.”
The older girl whispered, “Yes.”
The stepmother lifted her wine.
“Some children are naturally manipulative.”
The older girl said nothing.
“She knows exactly how to make your stepfather feel guilty.”
The older girl clenched her jaw.
“Her mother taught her that.”
The younger girl beneath the table whispered:
“Don’t talk about my mom.”
Everything stopped.
The stepmother turned slowly.
“What did you say?”
The child’s breathing became shallow.
But she repeated it.
“Please don’t talk about my mom.”
The stepmother put down the glass.
“You do not tell me what I can say in my house.”
The younger girl looked at the floor.
“My dad says it’s my house too.”
The older girl’s eyes widened.
Wrong sentence.
The stepmother stood.
The younger girl shrank backward until her shoulders touched the wall.
Her mother took one step around the table.
The older girl’s hand slipped beneath the napkin.
She whispered almost soundlessly:
“Dad.”
No response.
The stepmother crouched.
“Your father is not here.”
The child stared.
“He works.”
“Yes.”
The stepmother smiled.
“He works because somebody has to pay for everything you use.”
The child said nothing.
“Your room.”
“Your clothes.”
“Your school.”
“Your food.”