It wasn't until one in the morning that the door opened.
He came in with a cigarette between his teeth and the faint edge of alcohol around him, and I was on my feet before I had decided to be, unable to contain my anger and momentarily forgetting my place.
I walked over and pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, dropped it in the bin, and said, "Why are you back so late? Where were you?"
He looked at me, bewildered for a moment, then tossed his coat at me the way he sometimes did, slow and deliberate, "What’s gotten into you tonight?"
I threw the coat back to him, marched to my room, and slammed the door. If I said anything, it would be the wrong thing.
I sat on the bed listening through the wall. After a while I heard the fridge open, the quiet sound of a plate, water running briefl
