We eat what she sets on the table, her children. All day, every day. No questions. No answers. No complaints. No compliments; just eating.
But today, my food sticks to the roof of my mouth and screams at me, “Spit me out.” I lift my tongue, and set it back down. Nausea pulls a seat next to me and sits, taunting me as I watch my mother.
She is getting ready to meet him. Him. I wish it were my father she was going to see. But no. Daddy is sitting right across the table, an innocent smile in his eyes as he kisses my mother goodbye.
“Don’t be late for your night out with your girls,” he says.
My food is stuck in my throat.
“I won’t.” A smile tugs at her lips. She tries to hide the shade of red that forms on her cheeks, but I see it.
Her eyes meet mine briefly, and I hope she feels the burn of my gaze on her neck.
“Could you help me open the door?”
Everyone stops eating to look at me, a common question in their eyes. “You’re still sitting? Mum said to open the door?”
I get up, slowly. As I pull it open, the night air blows the light fabric of her short dress.
“Cheat.”
“What did you say?” Her eyes are filled with some shade of shock. Or shame. Or both.
I look away. “Nothing.”
“What should I tell the girls when I meet them?”
I look at her lipstick, the colour of shame. “Tell them you feed us with your lies.”
Tears drop freely from her eyes. I walk away.
We eat the lies she sets on the table too, her family. All day, every day. No questions. No answers. No complaints; just eating.
