“Did your chores, did you?” he snarls. Water pours from my eyes, and the painful grip on my neck has me seeing spots.
“I did! I swear!” I cry out, and he squeezes harder, shaking me.
“Does this fucking look swept to you?” he shouts, pressing my face closer to the wooden floor where there are a few bits of slush from the boys coming in.
“I did, Daddy, I did,” I assure him, tears streaming down my face. I can’t tell him the boys tracked mud and snow on it after I cleaned it. He wouldn’t care, and I would never throw my brothers under the bus like that.
He finally releases me, pushing my head down so it smacks on the floor. I don’t move from the spot, don’t do anything about the tears still rushing from my eyes.
“Clean this the fuck up,” he demands. “And don’t even fucking think about asking for dinner when you’re done.”
He stalks back into the house and slams the door behind him.