Dad tries to stay tall, but I can see him shrinking like she’s punctured his bravery. He turns away from her, but he won’t look me in the eye.

It took him years to be this strong, and it took her seconds to beat him. Mum wins every…single…time.

IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII I

Dad is standing in the hallway with blood all over his face and an eye that looks like an oil spill.

“What happened?” I ask and he shakes his head. “It’s okay, Amy. I’m all right.”

But he’s not. He needs to go to the hospital or call the police, but all the things normal people do in emergencies are dangerous for us. Instead, he goes to the bathroom and holds cotton balls on his cuts and tries not to cry.

“Please, Dad. Who did this?”

“I don’t know. They took my phone and my wallet.”

“Fuck,” I whisper, but Dad doesn’t notice because he’s a mess. “Can I help?”

He shakes his head and winces, and I touch his shoulder and say, “Do you need a doctor?”

“I’ll be fine. It’s just a few cuts and bruises.”

But it’s not, because, when he tries to sit in a chair, he holds his ribs and moans, and he doesn’t stand up unless he has to. He stays silent until Mum comes home, and, when she sees him, she says, “What happened to you?”

He stares at her for ages. “I was mugged.”

“Mugged in the middle of the day,” she says. “I thought this was a safe neighborhood.”

They’re playing a game that I don’t understand, because I can see it in their eyes. They’re saying things with their silences and their stares, and it feels like I’ve walked in halfway through an argument.

I want to scream at her—“Why aren’t you helping him? Why don’t you care?”—but I keep quiet and watch her and wait.

They’re like boxers, sizing each other up, and I squeeze Dad’s hand because I’ve picked my corner. He squeezes back, and I know we could take her if we were strong enough, but Dad isn’t strong on a good day. He used to be, but not anymore.

Mum goes down to the kitchen and comes back with antiseptic cream and bandages.

“Here,” she says. “This will help.”

Dad takes it from her, but he looks suspicious, like it’s a trap.

“You should go to your room,” Mum says.

She’s not looking at me, but I stand and walk out.

Mum whispers at first because she knows I’m still listening. Then her voice gets louder and I think she wants me to hear.

“I’m sorry this had to happen, but I told you there’d be consequences,” she says.