Working from home has its perks. It saves me from interacting with the world outside these walls, and my hours are flexible. I open the schedule for pick-ups and drop-offs today, then place my laptop down on the bed and jump up to get some much-needed caffeine.
I add my K-cup to the machine and wait for the hiss of the coffee being brewed. After a couple minutes, the scent of coffee in the air has my mind immediately relaxing. When the machine lights up green, I grab my mug and add some sugar. I stare down into it, gently swirling the brown liquid around, inhaling its scent, and relishing the feeling of steam on my face. When my glasses begin to fog, I pull my head back and blow some air into my coffee to cool it.
I take a look around the small house.
The open concept of the kitchen and living room makes it easy to get a full view of every corner that’s haunted with memories of my childhood. The back of our old, worn brown couch that was the foundation for most of my beatings has rips along the seam at the top, exposing the wood underneath. The cherry wood end table finally has a lamp that my father stole from our neighbors’ yard sale last week. I walk over and turn it on.
Back in the kitchen, I sit down at the small island that faces the sink and tiny window.
Whoever designed this kitchen was either blind or held at gunpoint. Why would anyone think salmon-colored cabinets and off-white laminate countertops go well together?
I’d consider paying half towards a remodel since that’d be the fair thing to do between a father and his adult daughter who live together, but he’s a shit father and person. Honestly, other than his DNA, he’s never offered any kind of fatherly contribution to my life.
In fact, it was the opposite. My father stole things from me as a child that I’ll never be able to get back as an adult…like my spirit.
But leaving has never been an option for me, no matter how toxic he is. Somehow I’ve convinced myself I’m safer here than out in the world.
Just as I finish that thought, the front door swings open, and he strolls in, smoking a cigarette with a twelve-pack in hand. I take a deep breath and sip my coffee. I stare out the kitchen window and watch as a small squirrel holding a bunch of leaves in its mouth climbs up the tree out front.
I ignore my dad, as usual, never expecting a conversation. Except this time, he speaks.
“You know these floors won’t clean themselves.” He bends down and runs a finger across the wood to prove a point, then stands back up. I side-eye him as he examines his finger, and a hint of agitation spreads across his face. There’s nothing there but the off-colored calluses that riddle his fingers and hands.
I look forward again and bring the mug to my lips, smirking as I take a sip and bask in the glory of the backfire.
I sense him staring for a minute, so I look over at him while he sucks some air through his teeth, stained yellow from years of smoking.
“If you intend to take up space in my house, you’re gonna make sure these floors shine like fucking glass when I tell you.” He walks past me, placing his beers in the refrigerator and slamming the door shut. He stands across from me now, blocking my view of the kitchen window.
“When I come home from the store, I don’t wanna feel like I’m walking into a dump,” he emphasizes the last word. I still don’t respond to him, and he grows more irritated. “It’s bad enough I gotta look at your face every day in my house. I don’t need it looking like a pigsty, too.”
I cleaned the damn floors yesterday.
I know his tactics, so I continue to ignore him and save my sanity. He walks over to the living room, stops at the end table, and stares at the light.
Turning around, he points to the tall, black lamp. “And this is mine. Got it? Don’t touch it. You think I don’t know what you did after I brought it home?” He awaits my response, but I just roll my eyes instead and continue to look out the window.
He walks back over to me and slams his dirty hand on the island, causing me to flinch, but I recover quickly to hide the lingering fear I still harbor for him. His threats and aggressive behavior don’t pack the same punch as they used to.
My heart rate picks up, but I try my hardest to keep myself collected.
“You think you’re so much better than me, huh? Going next door and leaving that ten bucks in their mailbox?” I adjust myself in my seat and take another sip of my coffee, which is now room temperature. “You’re useless, y’know?” He points to the living room behind him. “Other than cleaning this house, you ain’t worth more than a fucking wet mop.”
I take a deep breath, feeling the first signs of my blood heating up. It feels like the small air bubbles that form before a full-on boil of water. And it’s not because he’s on another one of his rants. I’m used to his bullshit by now.
What he’s spewing is the truth about me that I’ve come to accept; the insecurities I try to bury. He always finds a way to bring them to the surface. My jaw tightens from the anger I’m trying to contain, and I know he notices because he lets out a knowing chuckle.
“That’s what I thought...the door may look different, but still the same doormat. Now get these floors cleaned. They’re disgusting.” He turns and walks away,
