I’d come home from school and find threads scattered on the couch. He burned dinner twice trying to sew a hem while stirring stew.
One night, I noticed a bandage wrapped around his thumb.
“What happened there?”
He glanced down casually. “The zipper fought back.”
“You’ve been sewing so much you injured yourself over formalwear, Dad.”
He shrugged. “War asks different things of different men.”
I laughed—but then I had to look away, because something in my chest tightened unexpectedly.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Tilmot—my English teacher—made that entire month feel even longer.
She never raised her voice. Somehow, that made it worse.
Her cruelty came wrapped in calm, polished sentences.
“Sydney, do try to look awake when I speak.”
“That essay reads like a greeting card.”
“Oh, you’re upset? How exhausting for the rest of us.”
At first, I told myself I was imagining things.
Then one day in class, Lila leaned over and whispered, “Why does she always come for you?”
I kept writing. “Maybe my face annoys her.”
Lila frowned. “Your face is literally just sitting there.”
I laughed, because it was easier than admitting the truth.
Pretending things didn’t matter—that was my best trick in high school.
It worked on almost everyone.
Except my dad.
One night, he found me at the kitchen table rewriting an English paper for the third time.
“I thought you already finished that one,” he said, setting down his coffee.
“She said the first draft was lazy.”
He pulled out the chair across from me. “Was it lazy?”
“No.”
“Then stop doing extra work for someone who enjoys watching you bleed.”
I looked up at him. “You make that sound simple, Dad. I don’t know why she hates me.”
“It isn’t simple, hon,” he said gently. “But it’s still true. And I’ll speak to the school—don’t worry about that.”
I nodded.
