“You promised, Michael! You promised Lily!” I shouted, my voice cracking with frustration. Michael looked startled by my outburst. I had kept my composure through all his failings, but now, enough was enough.
“Why are you being so dramatic?” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“This is why I hate talking to you. You make me feel trapped in my own life. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’m sure Lily won’t mind,” he added, pulling out the first aid kit and starting to look for bandages and alcohol.
His nonchalant attitude was infuriating. It felt as if he was minimizing our grief and treating our suffering as a minor inconvenience, and I was done playing along with his twisted sense of priorities.
I let out a bitter chuckle. “You can’t make it up, Michael. Lily is dead.”
His eyes widened in disbelief, and anger flashed across his face. “I can’t believe you’d go this far, faking your own daughter’s death to make me feel guilty. What kind of mother are you? Watch your mouth!” he snapped, his voice rising.
I felt a surge of frustration, like I was trying to reason with a brick wall.