Just thinking about it makes me wince. Too many terrible memories crowd my head, overlap, crash into each other. I suddenly feel the weight of my father’s hand tightening around my arm, can still see his expression as his heavy hand flew across my cheek. I remember hissing at him even though tears were in my eyes. And the blood. I’ll never forget the blood, the way it leaked across the tile, thick and sticky, staining my knees as I knelt in it, clinging to my fingers as I picked Mom up, holding her, begging her to be okay. And then the last time, hanging in the bathroom, gone before I could get to her.

Everyone thinks my father is the perfect family man. I’ve even skimmed articles online that claim he’s sensitive. Patient. Gentle.

They don’t know about his new bitch. They don’t know what he did to my mom. To me. Simon Van Doren is a businessman, a natural-born salesman. A liar. He could get the public to believe anything he wants them to believe; I’ve seen him do it. I’ve watched him lie straight through his shimmering white teeth and not one person batted an eye. Unlike them, I know the real man behind the facade. But I have to pretend, stay quiet and smile.

Like his new bitch.

I’ve been pretending for over two years, ever since I found the texts on his phone, the vintage-filtered nudes sent back and forth like they were teenagers in heat.

When my father is finally done making me wait, he follows me into the bathroom. He glances around, then steps in farther to properly scrutinize the space. He searches my hampers, opens drawers, and this time he even unfolds all my towels, which is so petty I can’t even be offended. I don’t bat an eye, just stand back and let him run through his little routine. When he’s satisfied, he leaves the room for a moment and comes back with a small kit wrapped in plastic. I take it, and he steps out, gently shutting the door behind him.

When I come out, he’s sitting on the edge of my velvet tufted sofa. I hand the cup to him and wait for the results to show on the paper stick he slides inside. After a few moments his face goes still, frustration mixed with surprise. When he gets up and stops in front of me, he’s impassive and foreboding, his expression a dark mask of tension.

I study his uneven face, those squinty blue eyes and immaculately groomed brows that are sprinkled with gray. “What’s wrong?”

He flashes me the paper stick.

I stop breathing.

This can’t be happening. Not this time.

I snatch the test from his hand and check for myself. It’s positive. I wave it, like that’s somehow going to change the results.

Fuck. I’m fucked.