I called out softly, wanting her to know I'd come back like a good girl. Could she hug me? Or just smile at me? Today had really, really hurt.
But Mom couldn't see me at all.
The living can't see the dead.
Dad walked into the kitchen and glanced at Ethan, who sat stiffly at the table.
"Don't you think you went too far? Ethan wouldn't even talk to me today. He was shaking the whole time, and his head's bleeding."
Mom's eyebrow arched. I flinched.
I knew that look. Whenever she made that face, I was the one who ended up paying for it.
She tossed the spatula down, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Oh, so now I don't know how to raise kids? Being a stepmother is so hard. Haven't I been good to your son? That cut on his forehead? He did that to himself—banged his head on purpose. I didn't lay a finger on him!"
Then came Dad's endless apologies.
But Mom only grew more aggrieved.
"We agreed from the start to treat each other's children the same. Tell me—have I ever skimped on feeding him or clothing him?"
Dad sighed. In a family like theirs, keeping things fair was nearly impossible.