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If I left, Milo would wake up and cry, he would reach for my shirt with his tiny fist and nothing would be there. Dad would shout and his face would scare him, he’d probably slam something or even hurt Milo.

I press my cheek against his head and I’m angry at myself. I’m small, I’m still little, and I can’t fix Dad’s face but I can keep Milo from hurting.

The front door cracks open and Dad walks in. He stayed here all week because he didn’t have to go to work. My heart starts beating hard for no reason. It feels funny, like when you’re not sleeping entirely because you’re scared of something that doesn't even exist.

I squeeze Milo like he's a stuffed animal that might fly away. His little face is warm under my chin. I hugged him so tight my arms hurt.

Dad asks, "You okay?" and I want to tell him I don't know why I feel weird, but I say "Yeah" because my voice sounds small in my chest.

He goes to the sink and rinses his hands. I keep holding Milo because holding him feels safe and right and I don't know what else to do.

There’s a bowl on the counter and Dad picks it up before turning toward me. “What the fuck is that?”

I don’t know what to answer because it seems clear that it’s Milo’s food. But dad doesn't like it when I don’t reply. He throws the bowl on the table, food splatters against the walls, the ceramic pieces of the bowl crash to the ground and Milo wakes suddenly with a big cry.

“Shh, calm down, Mils,” I whisper to him. I know Dad hates it when he’s crying.

“YOU WOKE HIM UP BECAUSE YOU’RE SHAKING!” he screams at me, and I don’t know what to do. Milo is a baby; he gets scared when Dad screams or breaks things.

He’s just a baby.

“Dad… Please, h-he gets scared when it’s loud.”

He looks right at me, but his eyes aren’t soft. They never seemed soft. He looks tired and angry. “I don’t give a fuck. Look at this mess,” he says, but it’s not just about the bowl; he points at Milo’s toys and my little notebook where I draw.

He grabs my cheeks and squeezes, his fingers feel rough sitting on top of my skin. It hurts, but I don’t know why, I just want to cry. So I squeeze my lips together and hold Milo tighter.

“You’re fucking disgusting.”

It’s okay. I just have an angry dad, it’s okay.

“You'd better clean this mess,” he says releasing me, then he stomps out and drives away. I don't even know where he's going.

I try to stop the tears and breathe as Miss Edna taught me in class. In for 4 seconds, then out for 6 seconds.

In, then out.

In, then out…

I stand up with Milo in my arms, but it always hurts to hold him for too long. He’s growing up. I walk slowly because if I go too fast I will drop him and it will be worse than dad's yelling.

In my room I pull off his socks and tuck his toes under the blanket. I kiss his cheek because that's what I always do and because kissing fixes small things even if it can't fix big things. I kiss his forehead too and a hot tear drop falls down my face and I don't wipe it.

Milo makes a little snort and his eyes close.

“Sleep, baby,” I whisper. “You're safe with me.”

I creep to the bathroom and shut it so Milo can’t hear me. The light’s too bright, so I turn it low and sit on the cold toilet. My hands are shaking and I press them to my face until they’re wet. I cry loud at first, then little hiccups. I don’t know why I’m crying.

Maybe I’m just like mom. Sad. I am sad.

“Mom… Mom… Dad is still angry even now that you left.”

No one answers me.

“Mom?”

I know she won't answer. I open my eyes again and look up. Her makeup bag sits on the sink. I've never moved it because I always think she'll come back and need it.