“Where the hell have you been? Even your company called to ask. I couldn’t tell them a damn thing!” Without even looking at me, he went straight to the living room, removed his necktie and suit jacket, and hurled them against the back of the sofa. “Your mother seems to know everything, so there’s nothing for me to worry about, right?” I said sarcastically, expecting that soon he would be making excuses. “Zip it!” he said, slapping me across my cheek. Don’t you ever pester me again about where I go or what I do! Understand?” I slowly stepped back and escaped into the bedroom. I pushed a sofa in front of the door and waited for him to come and apologize. (I won’t forgive him! How can I? Even my parents never slapped me. I’m not going to give in. The door to my heart is shut.) My heart was pounding. I wasn’t so much hurt by the slap as by the coldness in his eyes—they were the eyes of someone trying to drive away a dog. I heard no sign of him chasing after me. I pressed my ear against the door, only to hear the bathroom door slamming shut, followed by the sound of the shower.
