“He’s never been violent toward you before?” Dad asks.
I shake my head. “He usually directs his violence toward walls, not me.”
“And his violent side only shows when he drinks?”
“That’s right,” I reply. “When he was sober, I only saw his depression, not the anger.”
“And his drinking only picked up again recently?”
I nod.
Mom asks, “Do you know why that is?”
I draw in a deep breath before answering. “The night he hit me was the anniversary of when his abuser was arrested.” I’d been with Shawn for two years. The first year, he dealt with the anniversary fine. This year, not so much.
“So,” Mom says, placing her fork back on her plate. “For whatever reason, this year the blow was harder to take.”
I nod again.
Dad sighs and gives a firm nod; obviously, he’s decided to support me and my choices like I knew he would. He takes the last sip of his beer and rises. “If this is the way you want to go about this, kiddo”—he moves around the table and kisses the top of my head—“then, of course we’ll support any decision you make. If you need me, then you’ll let me know?”
“Yes,” I say. “Of course.”
“That’s enough for me, then,” is all he says.
I can’t fight the tears welling in my eyes when he strides into the living room and turns on the television. Everything inside me warms a bit when Allie smiles at me, clearly feeling all the love in the room. Sometimes it’s so easy to forget how important my people are and why I need them so very much.
“Okay, so we all understand each other. That’s good. And thank you for finally being honest, sweetie.” Mom follows Dad’s lead, moves to me, and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before she approaches the sink full of dishes.
“That went better than I thought it would,” Allie whispers to me.
“No kidding,” I agree.
“Oh, and I almost forgot,” Mom says, shifting my attention to her as she turns away from the sink and moves to her purse on the kitchen counter. “Did you see the article about you today?”
My heart stops beating in my chest and my blood runs cold as she reaches into her bag and pulls out a magazine. Which doesn’t surprise me. Mom would be proud of me being in a magazine, regardless of what was written. She definitely is the type who reads those magazines and loves them. “Oh, God, what are they saying now?”
She hands me the magazine. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I admit.
Then I look at the cover, and I’m completely speechless.
Taylor Erickson puts her money where her heart is! Our sources tell us she made a secret quarter-of-a-million-dollar donation to a Bay Area women’s shelter.
“Holy shit.” I gasp.
“Language,” Mom shoots back at me.
“What is it?” Allie says, tossing the last piece of her garlic bread into her mouth.
I have no idea what to say so I hand her the magazine.
Allie reads the words, her eyes growing wide.
“I take it that Darius did that for you?” my mother asks, wiping her hands on her tea towel.
“He must have,” I say, astonished.