Chapter 4 - Behind Closed Doors
When June came home from school that afternoon, she walked into the kitchen with her shoulders hunched. Her backpack thumped onto the floor by the entryway.
“Hey sweetie,” I said gently, sliding a plate of sliced apples and peanut butter toward her. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” she mumbled. She sat down, poking at an apple slice. She didn't look at me. “Did Dad call you?”
I paused, setting my tea down. “He did. Why do you ask?”
June looked down at her hands. Her fingers were picking at the cuff of her sweater, pulling at loose threads. “He texted me during fifth period. He said I have a big mouth and that I ruined Becca’s shower memories.”
A hot spike of fury shot through my veins, but I forced my voice to remain soft and comforting. “June, look at me.”
She looked up, her blue eyes brimming with unshed tears.
“You did nothing wrong,” I said firmly. “Not one single thing. What your dad did was wrong. He lied to you, and he lied to his friends. You are twelve years old. You are not an employee, and you are not responsible for funding your father’s household.”
A tear spilled over her lower lid and ran down her cheek. “He told me that if I really loved my new sister, I wouldn't care about money. He said Becca was stressed because the nursery furniture cost so much, and that good daughters help their fathers.”
“Oh, June,” I sighed, moving around the table and pulling her into an embrace. She collapsed against my chest, her small body trembling with silent sobs.
As I stroked her hair, June’s voice came out muffled against my sweater. “Mom? Can I tell you something else?”
“You can tell me anything. Always.”
June pulled back slightly, wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve. “When the toddler—Chloe’s little boy, Leo—started crying because he bumped his head, I went upstairs to get an ice pack. Dad was in the kitchen showing everyone the new espresso machine he bought.”
I narrowed my eyes. “An espresso machine?”
“Yeah. He was bragging about it. He said he treated himself because he’d been ‘working so hard’ lately. And when I asked for an ice pack, Becca rolled her eyes and told Dad to take me back downstairs because the kids were ruining the mood.”
My heart ached for my little girl. She had been treated like hired help—worse than hired help, because a hired babysitter would have been fed, paid, and respected.
“And then,” June whispered, “Dad locked the basement door from the top.”
I froze. Every muscle in my body seized.
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“He what?”
“He clicked the lock,” June said innocently, not realizing the legal magnitude of what she had just revealed. “He said the toddlers might wander upstairs and fall, so he locked the door from the kitchen side. We couldn't get out until he unlocked it when the party was over.”
