That was when I knew she had known about the developer.
My father stepped closer.
“You’re still the same worthless little girl who ran away.”
My thumb pressed the tiny button on the lapel camera clipped near my jacket.
Recording.
“I’m not afraid of you anymore,” I said.
His hand came fast.
The crack echoed through the living room.
My head snapped sideways. My shoulder hit the wall. Blood filled my mouth.
My mother gasped.
For one wild second, I thought she might finally say the words I had waited my whole life to hear.
Stop.
Are you okay?
I’m sorry.
Instead, she whispered, “Walter, the neighbors will hear.”
Not my daughter is hurt.
Not you hit her.
The neighbors will hear.
I straightened slowly and looked at them both.
“It’s done,” I said.
Two days later, a sheriff’s deputy served me court papers at Grandpa’s farm.
My parents claimed I was mentally unfit and asked the court to appoint them temporary conservators over the property.
That was when I stopped being their daughter.
And started preparing like a soldier.
