My name is Penelope, and I live in Atlanta during the apocalypse with my mother. I was twelve years old when we left. My mother isn't the nicest; she doesn't like the others, especially Shane - she hated him. My mother used to work as a librarian before my father returned after mysteriously leaving when I was born.My father came back after six years, but my mother had changed. She quit her job as a librarian, and we were forced to move from our nice home into a run-down apartment. The apartment was in a dangerous and unclean neighborhood where people fought and used drugs. Despite our harsh circumstances, my mother loved me and provided tough love, though she found it difficult to show it.
I remember the day we left. My mother was eating a TV dinner, and I couldn't have any because I got into trouble at school. Looking up at my mother with her disheveled hair and sullen expression, I whined, "Momma, I'm hungry." She did not react well to my complaint.
"Too bad! You had to be sent home from school. No dinner for you, not after what you've done," my mother said, her anger evident in her tone. As she spoke, some of her food spit out of her mouth, which only further agitated her.
"B-but it wasn't my fault!" I whined yet again. My stomach rumbled, as if to agree with me, and I looked up at my mother.
"You punched a boy...and it wasn't your fault?" she demanded, her brow furrowing as she turned away from the TV. "If not you, then whose fault was it?"
I looked down, ashamed that my mother had refused to listen to my side of the story. "Yes, he was bullying my friend, and I was just protecting her." It was the truth. All I had done was give Josh a slight push. I never even meant to hurt him, let alone bruise him.
"I don't care," my mother retorted, her anger rising. "You hit him, and now you have to suffer the consequences."
I paused, considering my next words, as I lowered my gaze to the floor, feeling defeated and ashamed. "Yes, Momma," I finally admitted, my tone sad and resigned.
My mother picked up the last of her food, popping it into her mouth as she continued to stare at me.
With a sigh, I gave up trying to make my mother see reason. Rather than argue with her, I folded my knees to my chest and closed my eyes, trying to block out the sound of the television. The news it was airing was painfully dull and uninteresting.
Finally, I heard the door unlock and open, and I knew it had to be my daddy, judging by the sound of his heavy footsteps. Sure enough, a moment later, he walked in, stumbling as he made his way over to the couch and flopped down, seemingly exhausted from his trip.
"Hey, Daddy," I greeted in a cheerful tone, breaking the tense silence that had hung in the air. He nodded in return, his face showing no emotion as he looked up at me.
"Hey, baby," he responded in kind, smiling slightly as I approached. "Come here," he said, his voice soft and comforting. Without hesitation, I walked over to him, feeling a warm sensation as he reached out to caress my hair.
"How was your day today, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice calm and soothing, his eyes locked on mine as he spoke.
I was about to answer my father's kind and caring question when my mother cut me off, her tone snarky and dismissive. "She got sent home for punching a boy," she said, her eyes rolling in contempt.
But my father's reaction was completely different - he reached out and gently stroked the back of my head, planting a kiss on my forehead in, his eyes locked on mine as he held me close. After a moment, he leaned back, still holding my gaze, but his words were mixed with a hint of humor and sarcasm.
"Oh, baby - you punched a boy, huh...how...nice."
"Daddy, I think it's time for bed. It's past 7:40," I said, looking at the clock, already feeling tired from the long and difficult day.
