Maria
“Will this meat ever be ready, or should I go eat elsewhere?”
My father slams his glass on the table so hard it splashes some of the beer out.
“It’s almost done,” I mutter as I wipe the sloshed beer. Then I go check the food. I open the oven.
“Uhhh.” I can hear my skin almost sizzling as I take the meal out.
He sees the burned patch of skin and throws his fork.
“You’re so clumsy it’s unbelievable.”
“Sorry,” I say, not looking up and taking the seat opposite him.
He tries the food and nods. I can finally exhale. If he didn’t like it I would most likely have to find a place to sleep because there’s no time to make a new meal and besides- he hates bad food. I would have to listen to how I am just like my mom and my cooking proves it.
But he is in a better mood tonight.
