Page 211 of Tell Me I'm Enough

He groans dramatically. “You said that yesterday.”

I shrug. “Life’s full of disappointment.”

They laugh, and I can’t help but smile.

It feels forced, though, like stretching a muscle that hasn’t been used in a while.

I hate how much they look at me like I’m the adult in the room. I hate how much they need me. Not because I don’t want to be here. But because I don’t know how to be what they deserve when I’ve barely been able to keep myself going.

By midday, the house feels too quiet, too still. My skin crawls with it, not liking when it’s like this. It gives my head all the time in the world to overthink and self-destruct.

I take the boys outside even though it’s pretty chilly, and we toss a football around in the yard until my shoulder burns and my breath starts coming out ragged. I feel out of shape for the first time in my entire life.

I keep pushing through the day, even when it feels like someone gave me a fat sleep aid and told me to stay awake through it. Still, I end up letting them talk me into taking them on a walk so they can ride their bikes down the big hill in our neighborhood.

When we get back inside, we all end up wrestling on the living room floor, me pretending to lose so they can win,letting them dog-pile me until I’m pinned and laughing through clenched teeth.

That’s when I see it—a huge, dark, yellow bruise along Asher’s ribs when his shirt rides up. I freeze, holding his shirt there, trying to figure out what I’m looking at. That isn’t a roughhousing bruise—that’s intentional. It looks like someone took a baseball bat to his side.

He notices what I’m looking at and quickly pulls away, tugging his shirt down.

“Where’d that come from?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm, not wanting to scare him.

He shrugs quickly. “I don’t know…playing.”

I look over to Easton, who has anoh shitlook written all over his face. I don’t fucking like it. I don’t like not knowing what they’re trying to hide from me.

“I’m gonna ask you again, Bud. I need you to tell me what happened that caused a bruise that size.”

He drops his head. “I’m sorry, Mase.”

My confusion grows, laced with this protective anger that’s clouding all logical thought right now. “Sorry for what, Ash?”

“For getting in trouble.”

“In trouble with who?”

“With…Dad.”

I swear I can feel pinpricks on my skin, and heat running down my spine. “Dad did that to you?”

He nods—barely.

“When?” I whisper.

“Before he left with Mom.”

My eyes close, and I keep them like that for a moment, trying to calm my rage.

I look up and over to Easton, who looks scared.

“He pushed him into the side table in the living room.”

Asher turns and tells Easton to shut up quietly.

“You don’t need to be scared to tell me. Ash.”

“I—I don’t want you fighting with him. I don’t like when y’all fight.”