Chapter 2: The Rules I Break

“You’re not getting any younger, Linda, but you still act like you don’t have a clue. How are you supposed to watch a baby?”

Frank sat cross-legged on his brown La-Z-Boy recliner, a faded John Deere cap pulled low over his forehead. He took a long drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke toward the kitchen ceiling, and nagged at me through a cloud that hung in the stale afternoon air.

“Still thinking of being a babysitter for others? Be glad they don’t mind having you around.”

I looked at the lines on his face, every one etched by years of shared mornings and disappointment. The years had not softened him—not really. Suddenly, I felt a wave of nausea, the kind you get when you step outside barefoot and land square in a pile of soggy dog poop. You know you should have seen it coming, but here you are.

I walked over, grabbed the cigarette from his hand, and crushed it out in the kitchen sink. The motion was sharper than I meant, making the cheap porcelain rattle. Frank just stared, stunned, for a good long moment.

“What’s gotten into you?” he asked, his voice tinged with something almost like worry.

I picked up the dish rag and started scrubbing the puddle off the coffee table. “Tanya said, no smoking in the house. Caleb’s lungs are still growing—he can’t be breathing in secondhand smoke.”

Frank glared at me, jaw tight, but I met his gaze and didn’t flinch. I caught a whiff of the smoke still curling from the butt in the sink, sharp and clinging.

“I’m not smoking next to my grandson, so what’s the big deal? The smoke’ll clear out soon enough.”

I saw his hand twitch toward the pack again, so I tossed the rag down, letting it thump against the wood. “I said, no smoking.”

That was the first time in years I’d raised my voice. It caught Derek’s attention; he looked up from his phone, eyebrows raised, not sure if he should intervene or just keep pretending he was busy. He glanced from me to Frank and then, without a word, slid off the couch and headed down the hall, hollering back over his shoulder, “Go, go, I’m tanking the tower.”

I was always the gentle one—the peacemaker. All these years, I’d rarely stood up to Frank. The few times I’d shown even a flicker of dissatisfaction, he’d shoot back, “Linda, you getting bold now? Forgotten how many years I’ve worked hard to support you? People should know contentment.”

Just like now—after I raised my voice, Frank puffed out his chest, voice rising, jaw jutting like a cornered bull. “I think you’re getting senile—acting nuts for no reason. If you can’t stand the smoke, don’t stay in this house. If you’ve got the guts, leave.”

I surprised even myself by standing straighter, shoulders squared. “This is my house too. It’s marital property. Why should you be the one to drive me out?”

These weren’t my words, not at first—they were Natalie’s. She’d been saying it for years, ever since she got her first paycheck and rented her own apartment: “Mom, you’re too soft. Dad’s walked all over you for decades. You should stand up for yourself.”

Mom, you’re stronger than you think. Don’t let them walk all over you. Are you planning to let them walk all over you your whole life? You’re only in your fifties—being their servant is worse than coming to see the world with me.

Her voice echoed in my head, as if she were standing right behind me at the sink: Men make the rules, women keep the peace. That’s just how it is.

But Natalie insisted that was wrong. She’d say, “A family is built by both partners. There’s no rule that women are supposed to serve men.”

I’d heard it enough times that a little bit of it had started to sink in. So I used it now, my voice firmer than I expected.

He shouted, I shouted back. The walls felt thin with all that noise.

Frank had never seen me so tough. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing hard, eyes wide like he didn’t recognize me. In the end, he didn’t light another cigarette.

I lowered my head and stared at the empty plastic strawberry container. My voice came out soft, almost lost in the hum of the fridge: “These were strawberries Natalie bought for me. I didn’t even get to eat one.”

“What?” Frank grumbled, like he hadn’t caught it.

I repeated myself, slower this time, my hands trembling.

He looked at me, disbelief all over his face. “You’re throwing a tantrum over a strawberry? How old are you, still so greedy?”

Yes, just for a strawberry. But it was more than that. I’d cooked for my in-laws, kept the house running, raised two kids, and for so many years I’d never once had strawberries just for myself. When I was young, they were too expensive; now that I’m older and finally want one, my husband calls me greedy. I stared at him, feeling the years settle in my bones.

“Forget it. If you want to eat, go buy a pound. Never seen such a gluttonous old woman.”

Frank’s face twisted, acting like he was letting me off the hook, as if he’d just done me some grand favor. I could feel him waiting for me to laugh it off or say something to ease the tension, but I just couldn’t do it—not anymore.

I didn’t even want to watch Caleb for the rest of the afternoon. I walked slowly to the bedroom, picked up my driver’s license and passport from the sock drawer, and left the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind me.