We sat down a few minutes later.
I had made enough food for a much larger gathering, although there were only three of us.
That was another habit I had picked up.
Prepare too much.
Do too much.
Make sure nobody had a reason to complain.
I had roasted vegetables, prepared the main dish, and set out a bowl of salad that I had barely touched while cooking.
My father thanked me before taking his seat.
Derek complimented the food.
I said I was glad they liked it.
Everything was polite.
Everything was normal.
I kept waiting for my father to ask about my face again.
He didn't.
Instead, he asked about my job.
I told him about a project I had been working on and mentioned a problem that had taken me several days to resolve.
He listened closely and asked a few questions.
For a little while, I almost forgot why I was nervous.
Then Derek reached across the table for a serving dish.
His hand brushed mine.
I flinched.
It was a small movement.
I barely realized I had done it until I saw my father look up.
Derek continued serving himself as though nothing had happened.
I picked up my fork.
My fingers were trembling slightly.
I pressed them against the handle until they steadied.
My father returned to the conversation, but I noticed that he was watching me more carefully now.
He asked how work had been lately.
I said it was fine.
He asked whether I had been sleeping well.
I told him I had been busy.
He nodded.
Then he asked whether Derek and I had been getting much time together.
Derek answered before I could.
"We've both had a lot going on."
He smiled at my father.
"Nothing we can't handle."
My father glanced at me.
I looked down at my plate.
I hated how easily Derek could speak for both of us.
I hated that I let him.
There had been a time when I corrected him whenever he misunderstood something I had said.
I used to insist on finishing my own sentences.
I used to believe that being married meant I could disagree without having to prepare for the consequences.
I couldn't remember exactly when I had stopped expecting that.
Perhaps it had happened gradually.
One argument at a time.
One apology that wasn't really an apology.
One evening when I decided that keeping quiet was easier than explaining why I was hurt.
By the time I understood what was happening, silence had become my first response to almost everything.
My father asked about the cake.
I looked toward the kitchen.
"It's waiting for us."
"Strawberry?"
I smiled despite myself.
"Of course."
"You've been making that since you were little."
"I remember."
He shook his head with a faint smile.
"You used to put so many strawberries on top that there wasn't any room for the frosting."
"I was very serious about the strawberries."
"You certainly were."
For a moment, I was a child again.
I could almost see the old kitchen where I had stood on a chair to reach the counter, carefully arranging fruit while my father pretended not to notice how much frosting I had eaten.
I remembered his hands helping me carry the cake to the table.
I remembered him telling me that birthdays were supposed to be enjoyed, not managed.
The memory hurt in a way I hadn't expected.
I had spent the entire day managing everything.
The cake.
The dinner.
The makeup.
Derek's mood.
My father's expectations.
My own fear.
I had managed so many things that I had forgotten the simplest one.
It was my birthday.
I was allowed to be happy.
Or at least, I had once believed I was.
Derek interrupted the conversation to ask my father about something at work.
My father answered.
They discussed it for several minutes, and I used the time to take a sip of water.
The glass touched my lower lip.
I set it down carefully.
I was trying not to think about the argument that had happened before dinner.
I was trying not to remember how the bruise had appeared.
I was trying not to notice that Derek seemed more relaxed with every minute that passed.
He believed the evening was going well.
My father hadn't confronted him.
I hadn't said anything.
The food was good, and the conversation had stayed pleasant.
As far as Derek was concerned, the problem had been handled.
I could see it in the way he leaned back in his chair.
I could hear it in the ease of his laughter.
He had decided that nothing would happen.
And because he had decided it, I was expected to accept it too.
My father asked me another question.
I didn't hear the beginning of it.
"Sorry?"
"I asked whether you were enjoying yourself."
I looked at him.
He wasn't smiling now.
The question had been simple, but I couldn't answer it honestly.
I glanced at Derek.
He was looking at me.
Not openly threatening.
Not angry enough for anyone else to notice.
Just waiting.
I turned back to my father.
"Yes," I said.
The word felt like something I had swallowed without chewing.
My father put down his fork.
I noticed the sound because everything else had gone quiet inside my head.
He looked at me for several seconds.
I wanted him to look away.
I wanted him to ask about the food again or make another joke about the cake.
I wanted him to give me another chance to pretend.
Instead, he spoke softly.
"Emily, look at me."
I lifted my eyes.
He studied my face.
I could feel the concealer sitting heavily on my skin.
I could feel the swelling beneath it.
I could feel my heartbeat in my throat.
My father had spent years teaching me that I never needed to hide from him.
Now I was sitting across from him, doing everything I could to hide the truth.
He didn't ask another question.
He didn't reach across the table.
He didn't make a scene.
He simply looked at me, and I realized that the makeup had never been the only thing I was afraid he would see.
I was afraid he would see how accustomed I had become to being frightened.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: The Moment My Father Put Down His Fork, the Birthday Dinner Stopped Being About Food and Became Something I Could No Longer Control
I Had Spent Twenty Minutes Hiding the Bruise on My Face, but My Husband Was More Afraid of My Father Seeing It
Part 3 of 20
