29

My shoulders hunch when I open the front door. Right. Dad isn’t here anymore. I think I’m still in denial about it all, because every day, I wake up thinking I’ll find him in the kitchen or that he’ll be banging on my door, telling me I’m late for school. In my mind, my dad’s still here. He’ll come back, because that’s what dads do. They stay. They don’t leave like moms do. My dad won’t abandon me like she did. “What time is it?” I jump, letting the bags fall from my fingers and hit the ground with a resounding thud. The entry hall is dark aside from the garden lights slipping through the windows. But some of it is camouflaged by a tall, broad figure who’s standing there, blocking the soft hues, massacring and turning them into a shadow. I can’t see his features clearly, but I can feel the harshness in them. It’s hanging in the air and shooting imaginary daggers at my chest. “I asked what time is it, Gwyneth.” My spine jerks in a line at the cold edge of his voice and the blunt authori