Not My Hero

I’ve gotten used to cooking for us. It’s either that or take-out, and I can’t stomach junk food anymore.

My thoughts go back to school while I prepare dinner. None of the students stood out. Well, except for Brie. The rest are the same as at my previous school.

I wonder what Brie’s story is. Is she just an introvert, or is there more?

From experience, I know how easy it is to hide abuse. God, you do everything in your power so people won’t find out.

We didn’t lie so my father wouldn’t get in trouble. We did it so people wouldn’t pity us.

Fuck, if only I had said something. If only I’d done more.

Then Brady would still be here.

When the food is ready, I prepare a plate for Mom. Grabbing a bottle of water and cutlery, I set it all on a tray. I carry the meal to her room and say, “Time to eat.”

She lets out a groan.

“Come on. I tried something new with the steak. I grilled it in butter and garlic.”

Mom sits up and wipes the hair out of her face. I set the tray down and whisper, “It would really make me happy if you eat half of it at least.”

It’s a low blow, but if I don’t guilt-trip her, she doesn’t eat.

I wait for her to take a bite of the steak. Mom gives me a weak smile. “My son, the chef. It’s delicious.”

Pleased that she’s eating, I go grab the book I’m reading and walk back to the kitchen. Taking my plate, I go sit outside on the porch.

Eating, I stare out over the lawn. I spent the summer planting shrubs and flowers. Mom always loved gardening, and I hoped it would draw her out of the house. But it didn’t.

When I’m finished with the meal, I read for a while before I go back inside to clean the kitchen. Grabbing the tray from Mom’s room, I smile when I see that she ate most of the food.

“It was really good,” she murmurs, “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome.” I finish the chores then settle in at my desk to continue with my homework.

Our life here is a total contrast to how things were in California. There’s no noise. No rages. No demoralizing words. No beatings. Just silence.

It’s peaceful, and I know Brady would’ve loved it here.

If only we had moved sooner.Chapter 3BRIEI managed to sneak into the house without my mom realizing I’m home from school.

Even though I have a laptop, I prefer to write by hand. Once I’m done with my essay for history, a smile tugs at my lips. My stomach growls, and I rub a hand absentmindedly over it. I should’ve eaten the meatloaf at lunch.

Glass breaks somewhere in the house, and it makes my head snap up from where I’m reading over what I wrote.

“Brie!” Mom’s voice is shrill as it echoes through the house.

My shoulders slump, and getting up, I sigh. At least I managed to avoid her for a couple of hours.

Leaving my room, my steps feel heavy as I go down to the kitchen. I find my mother staring at the pieces of what used to be a cocktail glass.

Crouching by the mess, I begin to pick up the largest pieces.

My mother doesn’t move, and I can feel her eyes burning on the top of my head. “They must’ve swapped you at birth.” My heart kicks against my ribs, and I work faster. “I’m sure I can sue them for negligence.”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard the words. Where my mother has ginger hair, I have black. She has green eyes, and I have blue. I look nothing like her.

Her perfectly manicured hand reaches for my face, and a long nail digs in under my chin as she forces me to look up at her. “God only knows who’s kid you are. Not mine, that’s for sure.” Her sharp gaze moves over my features. “You’re so… dull. Would it kill you to try harder? What will it take to light a fire under you? Huh?”

I stand up and shuffle backward to put some space between us, then mumble, “I’ll try harder.”

“No fight at all,” she sneers. I turn to throw the shards of glass away, but then she grabs hold of my arm, yanking me back so I’ll face her. “I’m not done talking to you.”

I swallow hard. “Sorry.”

“I’m sure the whole town is talking about the bastard kid that’s living with me.”

I lower my eyes to the remaining mess on the floor.

The flat of her hand connects with the side of my head. “Show some life! You’re like a goddamn zombie.”

The shock of the slap vibrates through my body, and I draw my bottom lip between my teeth in an attempt to fight for control over my emotions. I want to lash out. I want to fight back. But no good will come from it. It will only enrage her more, which will mean more trouble for me.