I slam my fist down on the table. “GODDAMNIT, CAITLYN! STOP IT! JUST STOP IT! DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE BRING YOUR MOTHER INTO THIS!”

Caitlyn looks up at me in horror. Her eyes fill with fearful tears that spill out and run down her cheeks.

I can’t believe I said that to her, but I’m still boiling and my hand is throbbing.

“Go to your room.”

She sniffs. “Daddy … I’m sorry …”

“Go to your room, now.”

After a long silence, her chair scrapes across the floor as she gets up from the table. She walks out of the dining room. Her footsteps quicken as she reaches the stairs, as do her choked sobs. A moment later, her bedroom door closes.

The image of her looking at me like I was a monster causes all the rage and frustration to drain out of me, to be replaced with a feeling of regret I’ve ever known.

I lean back, sigh, and hang my head.

What did I just do?

I’ve blown it.

I wanted her to open up to me. I should have listened and tried to have been understanding. Instead, I yelled and cursed at her. I had hurt her. I had hurt our daughter. If Nicole was here, I don’t know what she would say.

I can’t let this fester. I have to tell her I’m sorry. I slowly go upstairs and stop outside her door. I can hear her crying inside.

“Caitlyn, can I come in?”

The sniffling stops. There are footsteps. Then, there’s the sound of something sliding across the floor. She’s blocked the door.

I should tell her to open the door, but after what I’ve done, if she wants to be alone, I’m going to have to respect that.

“Okay … Caitlyn, I’m sorry. I should never have said that … I’m so sorry … I love you, sweetheart.”

Her footsteps retreat into her room, and from what I can tell, back to her bed. The stifled crying resumes.

*

I’ve been sitting at the dining-room table for hours, going back and forth between wondering what to do, berating myself, and feeling sorry for myself.

I go upstairs to see if Caitlyn wants anything to eat, but when I reach her door, I can hear her snoring. It might be better to let her sleep and try to apologize again in the morning, so I head back downstairs to the kitchen.

I’m about to open the fridge when I spot Mildred’s bottle of scotch sitting on top of it. In frustration, I grab it, hold it in my hands, and pull out the stopper.

Fuck it.