The Woman with the Scar (Costa Family)

We would start with Ezogelin soup—a creamy red lentil-based soup that I’d grown up on my whole life, but thought it tasted different when it was made in a fancy restaurant. Then we would share Pide—a Turkish take on pizza. And we would finish with Turkish tea and, of course, Baklava.

Anytime I would walk past the restaurant, I would take a slow, deep breath and think about my birthday, about my father’s indulgent smiles, his stories about his own youth.

Even after his sudden, devastating death, it held a special place in my heart. The place where my father and I shared something special.

It had been so special to me, in fact, that when it was time for me to get a job of my very own to help my struggling mother, I thought it might be something I would like to do. To serve the dishes that had meant so much to me growing up.

It had been special.

For a week or so.

Until, eventually, it just became a job.

Then, after the remodel, it no longer even remotely resembled the place my father and I used to cherish.

While it was lovely in its new way, I could no longer imagine my father leaning back in his seat as his arms shot out, gesturing wildly as he told his stories.

Perhaps that was the best.

It would kill me a little to be able to imagine my father watching what happened to me in our favorite restaurant.

That was what my mind was on when the town car pulled up to the sidewalk out front.

I tried to avoid the restaurant as much as possible. But sometimes, it was the only place I was permitted to go. So even if I didn’t want to, I got desperate enough to go with him.

Besides, it would be nice to eat something I wasn’t made to cook for a change.

I was just getting out of the car when, I don’t know, I could have sworn I felt someone looking at me.

It was such a strong feeling that I actually looked to see if I could find who it might be.

But, clearly, I was just being paranoid.

I saw no one who didn’t seem like they were busy with their own business.

Turning, I hurried to the door, knowing Eren wouldn’t forgive me if I left him waiting.

And let’s just say that I learned very early on that Eren’s anger was not something I wanted to invite onto myself if it was possible to avoid it.

To be fair, it often wasn’t possible. But if there was any chance of keeping things halfway amicable, I was going to choose that route.

“No,” Eren said when I tried to order my meal. “She won’t be having that,” he added, making my shoulders shrink.

I was accustomed to him talking down on me in private. But it never stopped being completely humiliating and dehumanizing to have him do it to me in front of people.

“You’re getting fat,” he informed me, making me wish the ground would open up and swallow me right then and there.

Not that it mattered, but I was the exact same weight I’d been when he’d first seen me.

He just liked to be cruel.

He got off on making me feel small.

“She will have Yaprak dolma,” he informed the mortified server.

Vine leaves stuffed with seasoned rice.

I would be hungry again in a few hours. But it was food. And trying to complain would get me nowhere.

Eventually, as I suspected, Eren’s brothers and business associates joined the table, and the four of them carried on a conversation, leaving me out.

Which was fine.

I didn’t much care for any of them either. In my experience, good men did not associate with bad ones.

There was no denying that Eren was a bad man.

So I sipped my water and ate my food as I watched other people.

There was an older man and a young girl—his granddaughter, perhaps—sitting at a table by the window, talking, smiling, making memories.

Joyful.

My heart ached for a life that involved anything close to joy.

It felt like there was a black hole in my soul, sucking in anything and everything, leaving nothing but emptiness and darkness.

“Let’s go,” Eren barked, making me jerk and look over to find him tossing his linen napkin on his sauce-covered plate.

The former employee in me cringed at that. And I was reminded once again what a privileged life he had led, never having to think of the difficulty of getting stains out of fabrics.

It didn’t matter that I hadn’t finished my food.

It was time to go.

I would be able to sneak back down to the kitchen once he had one too many beers, and fell into a dead sleep, snoring loudly enough to make the floor and walls vibrate.

Then I could eat all that I wanted without him ever knowing.

I carefully placed my napkin next to my plate then rose, following him toward the front door, trying not to sigh when he—yet again—didn’t hold the door for me.