Love Admits Deceit

Broken Veil

The morning light filtered through the thin curtains as Emma quietly moved around the kitchen, helping her mom prepare breakfast. The routine was familiar, automatic. She cracked eggs into a pan, the sizzle filling the small space while her mom worked on cleaning the dishes from the night before. They moved in silence, both of them knowing it was better to keep quiet, especially after the previous night’s chaos.

Emma kept glancing at the clock, anxious to leave for school. Her mother had packed a simple lunch for her again, and Emma had hidden it carefully in her backpack. Her father couldn’t know about it. If he saw that her mom had made something for her, it would only fuel his anger. They had learned to be careful, to anticipate his moods, but there was always something that could set him off.

The sound of the front door creaking open sent a chill through the air. Her father was awake. Emma tensed, her hands freezing in place as the footsteps grew louder, heavier. He entered the kitchen, his presence thick with the scent of alcohol from the night before, even though it was still early. His face was hard, eyes bloodshot, and as he slumped into his chair, a scowl settled on his face.

Emma and her mom exchanged a quick glance. Without a word, her mom prepared a plate and placed it in front of him, her hands shaking ever so slightly as she set down the food. Emma could feel her own heart racing. She hated these moments—when everything hinged on his unpredictable temper. When they didn’t know what would come next.

Her father glanced at the plate of food, his lip curling in disdain. “What’s this?” he grumbled, pushing the plate away as if it disgusted him.

“It’s breakfast,” her mom said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I made it fresh.”

“Fresh?” he mocked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “This looks like garbage.”

Emma’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she fought the urge to say something. She bit her lip, trying to keep quiet, but the frustration was building inside her like a storm. Every day was the same—no matter how hard they tried, it was never good enough for him.

Her mom stood silently, her head slightly bowed, as if bracing for whatever insult or cruelty would come next. Emma couldn’t take it anymore.

“She worked hard on that,” Emma said, her voice steady but filled with a quiet fury. “You don’t have the right to talk to her like that.”

Her father’s head snapped toward her, his eyes narrowing in disbelief at her defiance. For a moment, there was a tense silence in the room, the air thick with the weight of what Emma had just said. Then, without warning, he grabbed the cup in front of him and hurled it across the room.

The cup flew through the air, smashing into Emma’s forehead before she could react. The impact sent her stumbling back, a sharp, searing pain exploding across her head as the ceramic shattered on the floor. She gasped, her hand flying to the spot where the cup had hit, warm blood quickly soaking her fingers.

Her vision blurred as she steadied herself, the ringing in her ears almost deafening. The shock of it left her frozen for a moment, unable to process what had just happened. Her mother rushed to her side, panic and fear written all over her face.

“Emma!” her mom cried, her voice shaking as she tried to inspect the wound. Emma could see the fear in her mother’s eyes, the horror of watching her daughter be hurt, yet again.

Her father didn’t even look back. He stood up, his chair scraping harshly against the floor, and with a grunt of frustration, he stormed out of the kitchen, leaving Emma bleeding and her mom frantically trying to stop the flow.