Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
And the bastard knew. He freaking knew what I was doing, but he didn’t punish me, and I don’t understand why. Maybe he was embarrassed about the sex bag, but I’m not sure. There didn’t seem to be any shame or hesitation in his expression—more like he was extremely amused by the whole situation.
Then there was that nickname. Topolina. I had to look it up later and it means little mouse. Which I guess is pretty accurate since I was scurrying around his floor, but still, the way he said it sent shivers down my spine.
There was something about him. Something animalistic and terrifying. It felt like I was trapped in a cage with a hungry wolf, and I don’t understand how he didn’t devour me, because he was staring at my mouth like he wanted a taste.
The whole situation was bizarre, but I learned something important.
Don’t try to steal from my employer.
But unfortunately, I’m still in a really bad spot financially, and I might have to steal from someone else before this week’s over.
“You didn’t have to bring all that,” Dad grunts as I heft a grocery bag in the front door. “I’m fine, Em. Seriously.”
“Yeah, uh-huh, I know you are.” I carry it into the kitchen. Original hardwood floors, original molding around the ceiling and on the banister. Everything’s been lovingly restored and maintained by my father for the last fifty years, ever since he inherited the place from his parents in his twenties.
I remember my father as a big, strapping, loud man stomping around the house and throwing me so high that I swear I scraped the ceiling.
Now he moves with a shuffle and his back is slightly stooped. His hair, which was once thick and black like coal, is gray and wispy. He grunts as he sits down at his table, and I make sure he doesn’t see my reaction when I open his refrigerator and find it completely empty.
There’s not even a bottle of ketchup.
“I saw the new neighbors painted their front door,” I say, making small talk as I put away the groceries. That’ll get him through the next few days, maybe longer since he doesn’t have much of an appetite these days.
“I liked the way it was before,” he grumbles and looks toward the back window. “But I guess things change.”
“Come on, Dad. That place was a total dump before they moved in, remember? You used to say all our mice come from there.”
“Good point.” He tries not to smile. “Haven’t seen any rodents in a while. Maybe they’re not so bad.”
“That’s the spirit.” I put on a kettle for tea and face him. He’s trying very hard not to look in my direction, and I should let it go. We don’t have to talk about money every time I come over. He hates what happened to him, hates himself for letting it happen, and despises that his daughter has to take care of him now. The shame is going to kill my father before anything else does.
Even though he’s old. He was old when I was born—my mother was thirty and he was fifty. It was a huge scandal, apparently, and I heard my grandparents on her side wanted to take me away when she died. I was barely three years old and she got pancreatic cancer, and what the hell was a fifty-three-year-old man going to do with a toddler?
Except my dad was the best father in the world. He was attentive, caring, outgoing. He gave me everything and worked his ass off to make sure I never missed a single experience. No, I didn’t have a mother, but I had a father that did the work of ten parents, and I had the best childhood imaginable.
All that came crashing down one year earlier when I got a call in the middle of the night, my father sobbing on the other line as he confessed to what he did.
“We have to talk about it,” I say and his expression hardens.
“Nothing more to say.” He glances over. “I’ll be fine.”
“Dad—”
“You know I don’t wanna hear it. Bad enough you have to bring me groceries. I die inside a little bit every time I open the damn refrigerator. But the rest is for me to figure out.” He leans back and crosses his arms, glaring at me, daring me to keep going.
I could push him. I should push him. He’s seventy-six, he’s been retired for over a decade, and the bank’s been sending him some very aggressively worded letters for a couple of months now. We’re way beyond not talking about it.
Except he’s stubborn, and it hurts him, and I love him too much to make him suffer.
I let it drop and make tea instead. I add milk, the way we both like it, and join him at the table. He seems wary as he holds the mug in both hands, blowing against the steam. His white whiskers are long, and I wonder if he has to throw away his last razor. I add that to my mental shopping list, which is always too long, and there’s never enough money to cover it all.