Domestic Bliss

11.

Before discovering the tapes, Grace had always been her daddy's little girl. Cal had spoiled her and adored her. He'd known he was not supposed to have favorites, but secretly he'd loved her more than Nate. Who wouldn't, though?

However, Cal Jacobs was far from a perfect father, no matter how hard he tried - and there were instances, like that time when she was five and had colored his construction plans, when he'd felt such rage he feared he'd hit her, so he had left the house and only returned in the late evening after Marsha had already tucked the kids in.

But I mean, who could blame him for almost losing it occasionally? As a kid, Grace was fucking fearless. She was a chaotic mess of scraped knees and paint stained clothes, and she dreaded the day she'd grow up and her mess wouldn't be seen as charming anymore.

But she did grow up, and it happened on her twelfth birthday, the day she had started fearing her father.

"...happy birthday to you-" Grace shifted on her chair. The dress her mother had forced her to wear chaffed against her neck. "-happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Nate and Grace-" this was the part where the song lost it's rhythm, making her cringe at how they stumbled over their names. "-happy birthday to you!"

Grace glanced at her brother sitting beside her, looking more annoyed than happy. She wanted to blow the candles together, but he was already leaning forward, taking a deep breath, desperate to end their suffering.

He blew them all out in one long breath and no one complained that Grace didn't get to blow a single one, that she didn't get to make her wish.

She pouted her lips, but didn't say anything. For the last month, ever since they had watched the... the tapes, things between her and Nate were weird. And so she just sat there, pouting as her mother cut the cake and her father argued with Aaron to get off his phone.

"Here you go, Gracie," said her mother as she handed her the plate with her piece of cake. She wore lipstick again, so Grace knew things between her parents must be improving. It relieved some of the tension that had been building up inside her small chest for the whole day in the anticipation of the cake.

You see, Grace hated cake. She hated bread and pizza, too, ever since googling the term 'calories'.

"C'mon, Grace, take the plate, honey." Her mother made it sound so easy. Just take the plate. As if taking it didn't mean she'd have to skip breakfast the next morning. As if taking it wouldn't make her feel disgusting for days afterwards.

But she still reached for it, as if her hand weren't her own, and sent her mother a wobbly smile. The plate was heavier than she'd expected and that alone made her want to cry. It was heavy, just like her, and it would make her fat and disgusting and... and she couldn't eat it.

But her parents couldn't find out she had been skipping school lunch, either, and not eating the cake might raise unwanted questions. She started sweating, her eyes glued to the piece of cake on the table that meant so much more than just cake.