Junebug • TWD

54. How It Goes.

"Writin' about what?" Dad asks.

"Don't know. She didn't tell me."

Dad grumbles something under his breath that I can't make out. Then I hear him sigh and the bed creak a little bit. He probably finally sat down. I bet it's exhausting going out on runs all day long. I feel bad for him, sometimes. "I don't see the problem in goin' in there and just reading that thing," is the next thing he says. I change my mind. I don't feel bad for him anymore. He deserves to be exhausted.

"Daryl," Momma scolds, shaking her head. "She's allowed to have secrets. Especially at her age and-"

"Oh, don't give me that shit. How're we s'posed to know how to help her through life if she ain't even telling us half the stuff going on with her?" Dad asks. And Momma doesn't even have an answer, unfortunately for me. All she does is hum out that I don't know sort of hum. "She used to tell me all sorts a' stuff before you went ahead and told her to start writing in that journal."

I can practically see my mom rolling her eyes through the wall. "It's a healthy coping mechanism."

"I say we read it."

"You read it and I'll feed you to the walkers."

My mom's good like that. She understands things my dad could never understand, like writing your secret thoughts in your journal. I think it's because she's a girl. Girls are a lot smarter about that sort of stuff than boys ever are. Actually, I think they're a lot smarter about most things. Especially girls like my momma, who are tough and resilient, and strong and good.

"Fine," Dad huffs out. "She eat dinner?"

That's my least favorite thing he worries about. I'd rather him read my journal than ask about what I've eaten all day.

"She wasn't hungry after lunch," Momma says because that's what I told her earlier.

They both go extremely quiet in a way that makes my stomach churn with anxiety. And maybe even a full ten seconds later, Dad finally says something. "And you saw her eat lunch?" he asks. His voice is quiet but tense, and I know what it means. I've heard it a thousand times. He's trying his hardest not to get really, really angry.

"Yeah. She ate it all," Mom answers carefully. It's true, too. I ate my entire lunch. Mom was real happy.

Dad, on the other hand, doesn't seem to lighten up upon hearing that. "And breakfast?"

"She wouldn't eat it."

"What d'you mean she wouldn't eat it?" Dad scoffs out. I take a deep, deep breath and try not to let myself cry. They're gonna start fighting because of me. That's the whole, entire reason I don't want them to worry about me. Because all it does is lead to them arguing like this. Dad mocks the words once more, all scoff-like again. "She wouldn't eat it. That's the whole goddamn point of you sittin' there with her, makin' her eat it!"

"It was venison, Daryl. She would've sat there all day eating that, crying her way through it. You know she would've," Mom argues. I can hear Dad get off the bed and then I hear Momma do it, too. That's when adults start really arguing. When they're standing up to do it. "She ate her entire lunch. It's fine."

"It's not fine! She's gotta be eatin' three meals a day, just like everybody else!" Dad nearly shouts. Three meals a day is what I have to do when Dad doesn't go on runs. Mom's always been more lenient. "She's gotta have 'healthy eating patterns' or whatever the fuck it was Hershel said. That ain't ever gonna happen if you keep lettin' her do this!"

Momma is really good at being a quiet angry sort of person. She doesn't even yell when she's arguing. "I don't give a shit what he says. He was a veterinarian for God's sake; not a psychologist. I know my daughter and I know that forcin' her to sit at that table, eating food she hates and makin' her hate me isn't gonna help one bit. Besides, she ate her lunch without a single complaint today. That's progress, Daryl."