Plus, I had started bringing my own lunch to school, and mysteriously, I never got sick when I ate food I prepared myself.
I didn’t say that part out loud. Not to him.
Because the last time I hinted at it, Dad had waved a hand and said I needed to stop “creating stories.”
Deanna’s eyes narrowed slightly, but her smile remained fixed.
“Such a dedicated student,” she cooed, turning to my dad. “Isn’t she amazing, Robert?”
Dad just grunted, still absorbed in his paper.
He hadn’t really looked at me since he married Deanna six months ago. It was like he traded his daughter for his new wife, and I was just an inconvenient reminder of his previous life.
Sometimes I caught him staring at family photos—my mom in the old frames he hadn’t thrown out yet, her smile frozen in time. When he noticed me watching, he’d clear his throat and go back to pretending everything was fine.
Fine was his favorite word.
Fine meant: don’t push.
Fine meant: I’m not dealing with this.
Fine meant: if I don’t look at it, it isn’t real.
I grabbed my backpack and headed for the door, my legs shaky, but determined.
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