The hallway smells like my mother's strong black tea. Comforting on normal days. Suffocating on mornings like this. My steps feel fragile on the worn tiles, and for a second I almost turn around and go back to my room. But hiding never paid a debt. Hiding never spared my father a single bruise. And it sure as hell won't fix anything now.
I inhale, paste on something that resembles a smile, and step into the kitchen.
My parents sit at the small wooden table. The one we've kept for twenty years because replacing it costs money we'll never have. My mother is pouring tea into three mismatched mugs, her hand trembling just enough that she tries to hide it behind a sigh. My father sits across from her, glasses halfway down his nose, sorting through medical bills and grocery receipts. His skin
