I look at him, confused. “What more is there to say? He hit me, Dad. All the time. Thank God he never did that while I waspregnant! Slapping me around and pulling my hair and forcing me to—” I stop myself. We’re in a public place, after all.
“Forcing you to what?” Dad gently asks.
Suddenly, those hotcakes sound like a terrible idea. I might end up puking them right back onto the table. “Honestly? Thatshouldn’t matter. It should be enough for you that he hit me. Martin hit your child.”
Dad scoffs. “You’re hardly a child, Clara. Don’t be so dramatic.”
But right when I’m ready to climb back out of the booth and leave this f*****g diner, he surprises me. “Still, these are prettyserious accusations I know you wouldn’t make lightly.”
Hope blooms in my chest. Does he… doe
