The Day I Opened My Eyes to His Lies

Abraham didn't come home until the next morning.

I was sitting on the couch, rubbing my knee, when I heard the lock turn.

He set breakfast on the table, came over, and pressed a hand to my forehead.

"Sorry. It poured again last night, and her stomach was bothering her. I got worried, so I stayed."

"You didn't run a fever last night, did you?"

I shook my head.

His hand slid down my arm and paused when it reached my knee.

"How did it swell up like this?"

"Slipped again while I was walking. Took a fall."

Abraham crouched down, found the medicated oil, and rubbed it on for me.

"Why didn't you call me?"

I didn't answer. He let out a small scoff.

"I knew it. Still sulking? Don't hold on to every little thing."

I didn't argue. But if I had called, would he have come home?

Pamela's stomach was only a little upset, and he'd kept watch at her place all night.

Now I'd taken a fall, and to him it probably meant nothing.

After all, I'd fallen plenty of times before, and he'd never said much then either.

Once he'd finished with the oil, he picked up the cane and looked it over.

"You're right, it needs replacing. When you get back from Grandma's, I'll buy you a new one."

He'd said that many times before, too.

I didn't call him on it. I just made a small sound of agreement.

After breakfast, Abraham called a car for me.

He put my luggage in the trunk, helped me into the seat, and buckled my seatbelt with his own hands.

"Message me when you get to Grandma's. Don't stay too long."

"If you're not back in a week, I'll come get you myself."

He said it so certainly, as if I were only throwing a tantrum.

"You're not seeing me off?"

"I've got something to take care of soon. Just message me when you arrive."

The door shut, and his footsteps faded away.

"Sir, not the station. Take me to the airport, please."

The drive was long.

At the airport, I got out with my cane.

I walked fast, felt a little warm, and pulled off my jacket.

Faintly, I caught people murmuring nearby.

"Doesn't she know? Didn't anyone at home remind her?"

At first I didn't pay attention.

Then a little girl ran up beside me, tipped her face up, and asked,

"Miss, why did you wear a torn dress out?"

I froze, then smiled and explained.

"It isn't torn, sweetie. It's my denim dress."

"But there's a big hole on the back. It's all black, like it got burned."

Her mother quickly pulled her back.

"I'm sorry. Children don't know when to hold their tongue."

But I called out to her.

"Could you tell me, please, where the hole is?"

The woman was quiet for a moment.

"It's on the back of the skirt. The edges are scorched. It doesn't look like the design was meant that way."

I gripped my cane tighter.

A few months ago, Pamela had come over to visit.

She'd run her hand over my denim dress and said with a smile,

"This blue is so pretty. It really suits you."

She'd also said her own dress had gotten ruined by accident, singed with a curling iron.

A few days later, Abraham opened my closet and, all secretive, took one of my dresses.

"Pam's clothes aren't dry yet. She'll just borrow yours for a day."

The next day, he put the dress back.

The fabric felt about the same, so I assumed it was still mine.

So he'd given my good dress to Pamela and put her scorched one back in my closet.

Because he knew I couldn't see.

The little girl's mother took my jacket and tied it around my waist.

"Wear your own jacket like this, over it. It'll cover the hole."

"You're out on your own. Isn't there anyone at home to check your clothes for you?"

I touched the fabric at my waist.

There was someone who checked. He just never told me.

My phone buzzed several more times. A voice message from Abraham.

"Are you at the station yet?"

"Don't forget the greens. Pam likes them."

I only replied: "I'm here."

He didn't know.

Where I'd arrived wasn't the station. It was the airport.