“That cabinet was an antique, Olivia,” Robert said, his tone heavy and flat, leaving no room for my reply. “Your mother spent three weeks trying to find someone to repair the glass, and it still does not shut right.”
“I was bleeding, Dad,” I said, looking from my father to my mother, searching for any sign of memory. “My back was bruised for months.”
Jennifer smoothed her skirt under the table, her voice fluttering high and fast as she refused to meet my eyes.
“It was just a scratch, sweetie, and we had to pay seventy-five dollars for the house call doctor just to tell us you were fine.”
“She was always looking for attention,” Tyler said, leaning back in his chair with a smirk.
I looked at my plate, the chicken cooling in the center of the white porcelain.
My back felt like it was locked in a vise, the pain radiating down my thighs, but I kept my arms pressed against my sides so they would not see me shake.
The room seemed to shrink, the dark wood walls closing in around the table.
I stared at my plate, wishing I could disappear into the wall.
