Dinner time was an absolute trial by fire, a final, mortifying hurdle to endure after the gym incident. I kept my head deliberately down, focusing entirely on the intricate pattern of the silverware, tracing the filigree with my gaze, only daring to lift my eyes to shovel small, tasteless mouthfuls of food into my mouth.
I ate with the frantic haste of someone fleeing a crime scene, desperately trying to gobble my meal and execute my escape to the sanctuary of my room as quickly as humanly possible.
I could not, for the life of me, meet Dad's eyes across the polished mahogany table. I was still completely shell-shocked and mortified by the earlier interaction.
My mind was a churning cesspool of panic, shame, and self-recrimination.
Did he see me gawking at his c**k? The question hamm
