The Last Time He Raised His Hand

Luckily for him, the glass shattered under his weight. He was getting up when we heard a loud BAM. The front door had just been forced open. The police were behind it. That's what I had done during those ten minutes in my parents' room. I didn't know my teacher's number, but I knew the police's. I'll skip the details: his arrest, his night at the station, and the twenty-four hours Angela and I spent at the hospital, covered in bruises. There, I didn't hesitate one second to answer the social workers honestly, and my sister did the same. My mother, of course, downplayed what she had been through. But with our statements, social services were on my father's back. It was the last time he ever raised his hand to his daughters. The social worker had made him believe he could lose his citizenship. My father finally let Angela leave what was, back then, our family prison. I learned later it was my mother who ordered her stepdaughter out. She had always hated her and never made the effort to play mom. Diploma in hand, with financial aid and a part-time waitress job, Angela moved into a big flat three miles from us. My father went to live with his brother for a while. He could only see us during supervised visits. Not Angela; she was an adult, so only if she really wanted to. He only wanted to see my brothers. At first, I didn't care. Then it started to hurt, because he took them to restaurants, to the movies… After eighteen months, he was allowed to sleep at home on weekends. He'd already been doing it for months, to my mother's great pleasure. He could have come back sooner, but I always told the social workers I didn't feel safe. And for good reason: every time he came over, he gave me a dark look. My mother wanted me to apologize. Out of the question. That would mean I was the one at fault, when he was the sick one: violent and unfaithful. Family dinners were over. Everyone ate whenever they wanted. My father ate alone in front of the evening news, and we kids ate in the kitchen, in a good atmosphere. After twenty-six months, my father officially came back home. Unofficially, he'd been back for a while. But he had lost a big part of his power over us. The more the years passed, the more his grip loosened, and at one of the worst possible times for him: just as we were becoming teenagers.