Stepfather. Part 8

The sound of Dad’s fork and knife clanging against his dish were the only sounds in the room. His new wife—who could have only been a few years older than me—sipped her white wine and stared blindly at the table’s centerpiece.

Dad hadn’t spoken much to me since he picked me up from Mother’s. I sobbed silently for most of the two hour drive; he ignored it and fiddled with different radio stations. He offered no words of comfort. He’d hardly said hello.

Then we were in his grand home and he had a fucking butler announcing dinner. “Is Ella home?”

The butler, named Thomas, nodded. Dad let out a great breath. I couldn’t tell if he was relieved or irritated. I never could tell with him.

“Will you help my daughter with her bags?” my father asked Thomas. Then Dad half-turned to me. “Dinner will be ready in ten. Thomas will show you to the dining room.”

Then he opened a door to a room, a study perhaps, and vanished.

I felt as though I were in some dreadful