A Gentle Collision

Chapter 25

Sunday mornings were always the same. The stillness of the house, the quiet tension that seemed to settle in with the rising sun. Freen sat at the kitchen table, her coffee cold in front of her, her mind a thousand miles away. Her father was home.

She could feel his presence before he even stepped into the room—his footsteps heavy and deliberate, his cold air filling the space like an unwanted shadow. He never greeted her with warmth, never asked her how she was. It was always business, always strict.

“Morning,” he said, his voice sharp, eyes barely glancing at her before turning to prepare his own coffee.

Freen didn't respond. She never did. She knew better than to try. His gaze would harden at any attempt to speak, his voice would become colder. She had learned long ago that silence was the only acceptable answer when he was around. Her presence meant nothing to him, just a part of his house to manage, nothing more.

She sipped her coffee slowly, wishing she could slip away from reality. She hated Sundays. They were the worst part of the week, the day when her father was home, when she could do nothing but sit and endure the unbearable tension. There was no escape, no relief.

She could hear him move around the house, his voice occasionally rising in impatience when things weren’t perfect. He never raised his voice at her directly, but his words always cut deep. His expectations were clear—be perfect, be quiet, be exactly what he wanted.

Her hands tightened around the coffee cup, the edges of her knuckles white. The bitterness of the drink seemed to match the bitterness growing in her chest. She had tried for so long to please him, to meet his impossible standards. But it was never enough. Nothing was ever enough.

She hated him for that. She hated the way he made her feel like she was invisible, like nothing she did would ever make him proud. She hated that she couldn’t be the daughter he wanted, no matter how hard she tried.

She stood up abruptly, the scrape of the chair against the floor cutting through the silence. Her father didn’t react, didn’t even look in her direction. He was too busy. Too busy to care.

Freen made her way to her room, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click. She needed to escape, even if only for a few moments. She leaned against the door, her back pressed to the cool wood, and closed her eyes. She just wanted to be left alone.

The hatred she had tried to bury for so long burned in her chest now, rising up like a wave she couldn’t stop. Every time her father was near, it was as though the air grew heavier, suffocating her, reminding her of all the things she could never be in his eyes.

The faint sound of his voice floated down the hallway, as though calling her, but she ignored it. She had no strength left for confrontation. She had no words to argue. There was nothing left to say.

Instead, she buried her feelings in the silence of her room, locking them away with the door. The only relief came in the form of quiet tears that slipped from her eyes when she let her guard down, tears she could never show him.

Eventually, she wiped her eyes and straightened herself. The house wasn’t hers. She had no choice but to endure.

She hated her father. But the hatred was nothing compared to the helplessness that made it impossible to leave. It was a feeling she had come to accept.

Another Sunday spent suffocating in the shadows of his presence.