I often prided myself on being smart, but today, I cursed myself a fool as I held the large entrance door, slowly pulling it shut to avoid a squeak. The key to my balcony was something I could never be found without — it was the only point of entry that allowed me to avoid my mother. I had left it on my nightstand earlier in the day, thinking I wouldn’t need it since we were having dinner at home. I hadn’t anticipated I’d make a mad dash halfway through.

The house was oppressively quiet, and save for the bright glow of the moon, the space remained cloaked in a piercing darkness. I tiptoed carefully toward my wing of the house, all the while praying no one would hear me. But suddenly, the once-dark space lit up—bulbs flickering alive, casting the room and hallway in familiar brightness.

I shielded my eyes against the sudden onslaught, a flash of something I briefly recognized as trepidation coursing through me. My skin prickled, and I hated to admit it, but I was afraid. My family had never been particularly violent, but that wasn’t what had me on edge. The verbal abuse had always been worse than any hand they could lay on me—and I dreaded the conversation that lay ahead.

Feigning false bravado, I turned—and saw the last person I expected.

Grandfather sat casually, too calmly, watching me, appraising me from head to toe. I briefly noted how stupid I must have looked, clutching my muddy shoes. I tossed them to the ground and lifted my shoulders with a false air of confidence.

“Where have you been?” he asked conversationally, adjusting the lapels of his suit. My hackles rose at the eerie calm he exuded, but I refused to give in to the fear sitting like a ball of lead in my throat.

Clearing my throat, I looked him straight in the eye as I gave my reply, not wanting him to see me cower.

“I needed space.” My voice was sure and unhurried.

“You needed space.” He mocked, voice dripping with condescension. “Space,” he repeated, incredulous. “Darrayla, do you by chance know who those people were?”

Feigning disinterest despite the sweat beading down my back, I shrugged as if to say how would I know?

His only response was a firm shake of his head, followed by an obscene cackle. Slowly, he stood and began making his way toward me with quiet precision, mumbling to himself. I caught the word space repeated bitterly, like he believed doing so might reveal some insight into my reasoning. I hated how I mirrored his approach with a step of my own—mine moving backward instead of forward. The lead of uncertainty in my throat only grew heavier. And worst of all, it was family that invoked this kind of fear in me.

“When I told George…” he began, referring to Father as if he were still standing there with us. He slowly folded his cuffs, exposing his forearms as he continued mumbling, “...that you were not being raised well, he ignored my concerns. Now he’s gone, and we are left with the burden of your errant ways.”

My heart beat an unbearable rhythm. I briefly considered saying “fuck it” and making a mad dash for my room—but I refused to give him that satisfaction. My trembling knees were already proof enough that I was afraid. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—add running to the list.

“You are spoiled, disrespectful, never disciplined, over-pampered, and hopelessly unaware of your responsibilities,” he said, listing my flaws conversationally. He kept approaching, step by slow step, until my back met the wall behind me. “All you’ve managed to achieve is being an overindulgent burden while the whole family lugged you around like dead weight.”

He grasped my cheeks hard, applying a pressure I knew would bruise later.

“In fact, I’d say your very existence led to your father’s demise.”

I flinched so hard my bones rattled. This was one thing I hated most about him—his words weren’t meant to simply cut. Unlike my mother, his were meant to land—to find the softest part and tear it open. And to hurt, they did—with proof trailing down my cheeks. What was it about me that made everyone come at me like this?

A tear ran into the corner of my lips and I cursed my helplessness. Grandfather pulled my face closer, and I finally saw the rage churning in his eyes—unfiltered and raw.

“You will do your duty to this family for once in your pathetic life. Tomorrow, you will dress pretty, according to your mother’s instructions, and we will meet your in-laws. You will apologize, and get on your knees if necessary—or so help me, Darrayla, you will feel my wrath.”

He applied more pressure to my jaw, and this time, my eyes watered from a different kind of pain. I clamped my fingers on his wrist, not daring to pry his hand away.

“Now, do we understand each other?” he asked, clearly expecting a reply.

I nodded frantically—if only to have his clamp on my aching jaw removed. But he only held firmer, shaking me.

“Words, girl!” he barked, obviously out of patience.

A pained whimper escaped me. I managed only a mumbled, “Yes.”

“Good. Good girl,” he praised, letting go of his painful hold. He turned his back on my sobbing frame, adjusting his shirt like my tears meant nothing to him.

I despised him—more than I had words for. I couldn’t let him go like that. Not without saying something.

“Father wouldn’t have treated me this way!” I shouted, furious beyond words.

With blinding speed, he whirled and backhanded me across the cheek. My vision blurred. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a voice that could only be my mother’s shout—

“Dad!”

My quaking knees finally gave out, the resounding slap leaving me a heap on the floor. That was the only mercy I received. Because the words he flung next shattered my world entirely.

“Don’t forget,” he sneered, wearing a look of utter vitriol, “You killed your father, girl. At least the relief of death spared him from your existence.”

My world tilted. Briefly, I heard the click-clack of my mother’s heels approaching. Despite every cell protesting, I looked to her—for help. My eyes pleaded. The little girl in me—the one I thought I’d buried—rose up again, desperate for her only surviving parent.

All she did was look away.

She took her father’s hand, abandoning me without hesitation. I watched, still foolishly hoping for some affection, as she calmly straightened his sleeves.

“We shouldn’t scar her,” she said coldly. “The Montgomerys won’t like that.”

Her eyes met mine briefly as she led him away—ignoring me entirely.

In that moment, I wasn’t only mourning the loss of my father.

I was mourning the mother I never had.

Sobs wracked my chest, an avalanche of despair consuming me as I came to the awful realization: I was alone.

The little girl inside me shattered into pieces, along with my heart—a closed chapter only this pain could finally seal shut.