We stayed until my mother’s shift ended at seven and then drove home. She slowed when driving by the house as though she intended to pass it by, but when my father’s car wasn’t there, she turned the wheel hard at the last second and pulled into the gravel drive. There was no sign that he’d even been there, and when we lay down to sleep at ten, he still hadn’t come home. I was too scared to sleep in my own room—really I was just scared to leave my mother alone—and I instead curled in bed beside her. We both heard his truck pull in some hours later. I held my breath. I could feel my mother do the same. He stumbled into the room and flipped on the light, saw us both in bed pretending to sleep, then turned the light back off and slept on the couch. When I woke for school the next morning, my father had already left for work.

I was restless all day, couldn’t concentrate in class, ate little of the lunch my mother had packed. The bus ride was hell, my stomach in knots by the time I finally arrived at the bar. I rushed off and saw my mother standing in the front doorway waiting as she did every day. Relief flooded through me and I hurried across the street and through the snow to get to her.

“Hi, Momma,” I said, hugging her tightly. She hugged me back.

“Hi, Bubby. How was school?”

“It was good,” I lied.

We walked inside and I took my normal stool while my mother went back around the bar. There wasn’t a single thing amiss that day, no acknowledgment of the events of the day prior. Danny came in at four thirty, posted up in his normal stool, and drank his three beers as he always did. My father arrived at a quarter after five carrying a dozen red roses. The others fell silent and stared without trying to be obvious. He ruffled my hair and gave me a quarter.

“Go rack ’em up, buddy.”