The next day, my mother called. I answered the phone with a curt “what?” There was silence on the other end, like she didn’t know how to begin a conversation.

“Are you eating well?” she said. “Fruits and vegetables? Please tell me you’re not skipping breakfast.”

“Why do you care all of the sudden?”

She hadn’t cared when my father twisted my ankle on their surprise visit, or when I spent 48 hours in my room without food, and she especially had not cared when my father threatened to disown me and stop paying for college. I had always promised myself that after college, I wouldn’t be beholden to him anymore, but that I had to get through college before I could break away. My father had jumped the trigger or whatever the expression was.

“You know I’m trying,” she said. “Your father is very…stubborn. He doesn’t understand that it’s going too far.”

“How is Sammy?”

“You know your father’s trying to recover.”

My father had been trying to recover for years now. It seemed to be working where my brother was concerned but he always relapsed when he saw me. My mother had been conditioned so well, he didn’t need to hurt her anymore. She just listened and did as she was told, probably rationalizing it as something she wanted to do.

“Can I talk to him?”

“You never answered my question.”

“Mom, I’m fine. I’ll make it through this without your help. I may have had good grades in high school, but I’m happier here, without you and Dad.”

“Your father is sorry for what he’s done.”

I hung up. I knew it wasn’t the mature thing to do but I did it anyway. It wasn’t her job to make excuses for my father. The only reason he tried to control his anger issues was because my mother, in a moment of rare strength had threatened to separate from him. Over the years, it seemed the threat had worn thin and he knew that she had used up her supply of courage for the decade. He had gone back to his ways, quieter this time, less obvious.

She called one more time, but I didn’t pick up. She had been given her chance. I couldn’t listen to the lies anymore. I had to focus on the here and now. I had wanted to tell her that I was doing better, that my quiz grades were improving, that I was spending more time on my homework. But I almost felt like those grades weren’t coming from me. They were coming from a fear of my father. They weren’t my accomplishments to share. They were his; he had made me do exactly what he wanted me to. The world was his play-doh.