Why You Shouldn't Lend A Bad Boy Your Clothes

Chapter 38

Next to me my mother made an animalistic sound somewhere between a whine and a whimper. "Andrew... Is what he's saying true?"

My father didn't respond. Instead he lunged forward and, before I could get away, pushed me up against the wall behind me. I suppressed a groan when my back slammed against it and forced myself to look him in the eye when he closed in on me.

"If you say one more word to your mother-"

I ignored his warning and craned my neck to look at mom over his head. "Do you see what he's doing? Do you even care?" I asked. There was a desperation in my tone that I hoped my father didn't pick up on.

My mother stood frozen in shock, not moving and not saying anything to defend me.

"I said shut up!" my father growled, shaking me so hard my teeth chattered.

I wasn't sure if it was a lack of survival instincts or plain stupidity that made me say: "You said If you say one more word to your mother."

My father responded by raising one hand.

I pressed my eyes shut and held my breath, waiting for the blow that was sure to come. When it didn't, I slowly dared to open my eyes.

What I saw was something I had never expected in my wildest dreams. My mother was holding onto his wrist, keeping him from hitting me. Her knuckles were white with effort, even though my father wasn't even trying to shake her off. Instead, he was staring at her in utter confusion.

"Don't touch him," my mother said. It was quiet and timid, but it was the first time in years that I had heard her give a direct command to my father.

"Sorry?" my father asked, his voice threateningly low. "What did you just say?"

"I said: Don't touch him," my mother repeated, louder this time. "I'm not going to let you hit him."

"Really? What are you going to do about it?" he sneered.

"I will call the police."

"You wouldn't," my father laughed. I wasn't sure if it was imagination, or if he really sounded nervous.

"Oh yes, I would," mom said firmly and grabbed her phone from the table, dialling three digits. "If you don't let go of my son right this second, I'm going to call the police for child abuse."

For a few seconds, all my father did was stare at her in disbelief. Then I slowly felt his fingers easing the grip on my shirt.

My mother gripped my wrist and pulled me behind her to shield me from him as soon as he stepped back took a step away from me. "Get out of here," she then said, voice trembling.

"What are talking ab-"

"Get out of here!" she suddenly screamed, high-pitched and piercing, making both my father and me jump. "Pack your things and go. If I see you here one more time then, so help me God, I will take this to court!"

"Fine," he spat. "I don't need you, either of you. You pathetic, spineless, disgusting-"

"Get out," my mother and I hissed at the same time.

He didn't need to be asked twice. After he stormed out of the kitchen, we heard him rummaging around upstairs for a while. Then his steps stomped down the stairs and out of the front door, leaving us alone in tense silence.

"Thank you," I eventually whispered.

My mother cupped my cheek with one slightly trembling hand and tilted my head to look at her tear-streaked face. "I'm so sorry, baby. So, so sorry."