Unsteady

by Peyton Corinne

I wonder what kind of treatment that expensive sports psychologist would recommend if I told her even my dad’s voice is becoming a trigger for me.

But my dad’s eyes are relentless as they take stock of my every muscle, seeing too much and yet nothing all at once. Does he see a stranger where he once saw a twin?

I could cry

“I’m not okay,” I shove through my lips. “Vchistuyu,” he whispers, a sad smile stretching across his face. It’s a word I don’t recognize from my partial, limited Russian. “I don’t know that.” I shake my head, my throat catching. “Finally.” He smiles but it’s watery.