My fingers tighten on the sink.
“I was nine when he moved in. Ten when I started sleeping outside my mother’s bedroom door with a baseball bat.”
Amelia makes a small sound.
I keep going before I lose the nerve.
“It was a cheap aluminum bat from a yard sale. Had a dent in it. Grip tape peeling off. I thought if I held it right, I could stop him if he came out mad. Stupid kid shit.”
“It wasn’t stupid.”
“Yes, it was.”
“No.” Her voice gets sharp. “It wasn’t.”
I glance at her.
Her face is pale. Angry. Not at me.
For me.
I look away again because that is harder than pity.
“First time I swung it, I missed,” I say. “Ray didn’t. Threw me into a coffee table. Broke two ribs. My mother screamed at him, then screamed at me. Not because she didn’t love me. Because loving me meant she had to make a choice, and she was too scared to choose right.”
The kitchen goes silent except for the refrigerator hum.
“What happened?” Amelia asks.
“She sent me to my aunt’s for a while. Said it was safer.”
“For you?”
“For everybody, probably.” My mouth twists. “I came back three months later. Ray was gone. Another man was there by Christmas.”
Her eyes shine now. I hate that too. Not enough to stop.
“I quit sleeping outside doors after that.”
“Why?”
“Because I learned a door don’t mean much if nobody on the other side is willing to open it for you.”
The words sit between us.
Amelia steps closer, then stops herself like she is afraid of spooking me now.
Funny.
Maybe we are both skittish animals tonight.
“Then when I was thirteen, a man hit my mom too hard. Put her in the ground. He got life. I got life without my mom. Wished I’d not missed.”
“You were a child,” she says.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” Her voice trembles with anger. “You say it like you were already supposed to be a man.”