That one had been practiced for years.
When Aaron shoved me down the back steps at ten, Dad told me I had always been dramatic.
When Aaron locked me outside in winter at fourteen, Dad said I must have mouthed off.
When my mother once saw marks on my arm and started to cry, Dad cut her off before she could ask the right question.
“Madison exaggerates,” he said then.
He said it with the same bored confidence that night.
Aaron wanted an apology, though neither of us knew for what.
That was how our house worked.
My guilt arrived first, and the accusation was invented later.
“Say you’re sorry,” Aaron hissed close to my face.
I asked, “For what?”
He answered by dragging me toward the living room.
