Chapter 3 - The Family Chorus
The next morning, the sun streamed into Melissa’s guest bedroom with cruel brightness. My throat throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache every time I swallowed. At 8:30 a.m., my phone began to buzz again.
This time, it was my father.
I took a deep breath and slid to answer. “Hello?”
“Hey, kiddo.”
The casual endearment grated against my nerves instantly. He hadn't called me kiddo in years—not since I graduated college and established boundaries he found inconvenient. The nickname was a tactical maneuver, deployed to soften me up before an uncomfortable reality check.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“My throat hurts, Dad.”
“Did they keep you overnight?”
“No.”
“Good. That’s good.”
A heavy, suffocating silence stretched across the line. I could hear the rustle of a newspaper in the background and the faint hum of my mother’s coffee maker.
Then, Dad sighed. “Your mother’s been crying all night.”
I sat straight up on the guest bed, ignoring the sharp twinge in my neck. “Dad.”
“I’m not saying what Ryan did was okay,” he preempted, his defensive armor locking into place.
There it was. The setup was complete, and the second half of the sentence was rolling down the track.
“But he was extremely intoxicated,” Dad continued. “Seth thinks he might’ve mixed alcohol with something at the bar before he came over.”
“He put his hands around my throat.”
“I know.”
“He didn’t shove me.”
“I know.”
“He didn’t slap me.”
“I know.”
“He choked me, Dad. He tried to cut off my air.”
“Clare, stop repeating it.”
“Why?”
“Because I know!” His voice rose, tinged with irritation rather than horror.
“No,” I said, my voice cracking on the consonant. “You know the words. I’m not sure you actually understand the sentence.”
He let out a long, weary exhalation. “Please don’t start.”
“Start what?”
“Your mother is terrified this is going to blow the family apart.”
“Ryan did that.”
“Everybody’s emotional right now.”
Everybody. There it was again—Dad’s favorite emergency exit. Whenever Ryan committed an atrocity, the Bennett family treated accountability like a group project. If everyone was upset, then no single person was to blame.
Then came the kicker. Dad told me Ryan wanted to talk to me.
“I’m not talking to him,” I said flatly.
“Not today. Fine.”
“Not Thanksgiving either. Or Christmas. Or anything else if he’s there.”
“Don’t make permanent decisions the morning after something like this, Clare.”
“I’m making a decision not to eat turkey across from someone who tried to strangle me.”
“He’s your brother.”
“And I’m his sister.”
May you like
Dad went quiet. Not because he was reflecting on the asymmetry of those two statements, but because he had run out of talking points.
For the next six days, I stayed at Melissa’s, waiting for one of them to snap back into reality. Instead, they doubled down.
