“How long?” I ask our dad, a tremor in my voice. “How long have you been drinking behind our backs?” He prolongs the answer with another swig of scotch. His smug smile irritates me the most. The way his lips curve. Like it’s funny that he’s drinking. And I’m not. That’s it for me. I just snap. I run across the den before I can process my movements. And I struggle to pry the goblet from his iron-grip. Somewhere in my head, I’m thinking: if I can get it away from him, it ends this. But it doesn’t end like this. I know better than that. “Loren!” he sneers and pushes my shoulder. With two palms, I
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god, i'd be pissed too.
