You always knew

Lena stared at the same page for the third time, the words blurring in front of her. The ticking of the old clock on the wall kept her company, its hands dragging toward 9:47 PM. She hated how she knew the exact time her father would walk through the door, hated that it had become a pattern—something predictable in the chaos of her home. Her mother used to sit in this very chair, years ago, reading while waiting for him. But Lena didn’t read to wait. She just needed something to hold so her hands wouldn’t shake.

The front door groaned open, and she heard it—the deliberate shuffle of shoes against the tile, the sound of keys being dropped on the counter. Right on time. Lena didn’t look up from the book. Her eyes stayed fixed on the words, though they’d lost their meaning.

“Lena.” His voice was low, gruff, like it always was after these long absences. But tonight, there was an edge to it that made her stomach twist.

She looked up slowly, her fingers gripping the edges of the book. Her father stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his broad frame casting a shadow across the room. He was still wearing the same black jacket he always did, but something about him seemed… heavier tonight. There were streaks of dirt on his clothes, and something else she couldn’t quite place.

“Hey,” she replied, her voice softer than she intended. She cleared her throat, trying to steady it. “You’re late.”

He didn’t respond to the comment. He didn’t even move, just stood there, staring at her, his eyes darker than usual, like he hadn’t slept in days. The silence stretched between them, thick, suffocating. Lena’s chest tightened.

“I need you to listen to me.” His voice broke the silence, rougher now, with an urgency that sent a chill down her spine. “Don’t tell anyone. You hear me?”

The words came out rushed, desperate. He stepped closer, his boots echoing against the tile as he approached the couch. She forced herself to hold her ground, to not flinch as he came near. He stopped in front of her, towering over her slight frame, his eyes boring into hers.

Lena’s throat went dry, and she struggled to speak. “Tell anyone… what?”

Her father’s jaw clenched. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit she hadn’t seen in years. The last time she’d seen him like this, she was eight, standing in the kitchen, watching him scrub blood from his hands. He had never explained. She had never asked.

He bent down slightly, leaning in close enough that she could smell the faint metallic scent on him. His hand, rough and calloused, grabbed her wrist, not tight enough to hurt but firm enough to make a point.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said through gritted teeth. “Just don’t. You understand?”

Lena nodded, her heart pounding against her ribs. She could barely breathe with him this close, his presence filling the room, suffocating her. The fear that had always lingered in the background of their relationship flared to life, sharp and raw.

He let go of her wrist and took a step back, the tension in his face softening just a little. He looked at her like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned toward the kitchen, walking to the sink with slow, deliberate steps.

The sound of running water filled the silence, and Lena watched as he scrubbed his hands, the same way he had that night all those years ago. The water was red. Dark streaks of it swirled down the drain, mixing with the dirt on his skin. Her stomach lurched, and she fought the urge to gag. It wasn’t dirt after all.

Her father’s voice had always been an anchor, something she could cling to when everything else felt unsteady. But now, the weight of his words dragged her down. Don’t tell anyone. He didn’t even have to explain. She knew.

“Who was it?” The question escaped her lips before she could stop it. Her voice was barely above a whisper, trembling. She regretted it the second it left her mouth.

Her father froze, his back to her. The water kept running, but his hands were still. The silence that followed was thick, like the whole house was holding its breath, waiting.

“Don’t ask questions, Lena,” he said finally, his voice low but firm. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

Lena swallowed hard, her hands gripping the book in her lap until her knuckles turned white. She had grown up in this house, surrounded by the quiet secrets her father never shared. Late nights, bloodstained clothes, hushed conversations on the phone that always ended when she walked into the room. She’d learned to stop asking questions a long time ago.

But this time, it felt different. It felt closer.

He shut off the water and dried his hands, the towel absorbing the last traces of red. He tossed it onto the counter and turned back to her, his eyes softer now, but still filled with the kind of exhaustion that came from years of carrying too much.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, as if nothing had happened. As if her heart wasn’t racing, as if the air between them wasn’t thick with unspoken truths. “Go to bed too, okay? We’ll talk in the morning.”

Lena nodded, but she didn’t move. She watched as he walked past her, his steps heavy, his body sagging under the weight of whatever he wasn’t telling her. He paused at the foot of the stairs, his hand resting on the banister. For a moment, it looked like he might say something, confess something. But then he just nodded, more to himself than to her, and disappeared up the stairs.

The house felt colder without him in the room. Lena sat there, frozen, her mind racing, her body still. She glanced at the clock. 10:15 PM. She had to move. She had to do something. But all she could hear were her father’s words echoing in her head. Don’t tell anyone.

She stood, her legs shaky, and walked toward the sink. The towel lay crumpled on the counter, the faintest red stain still visible on the white fabric. She stared at it, her stomach twisting. She couldn’t get the image of his bloodied hands out of her mind. The metallic scent still clung to the air.

Lena wasn’t naive. She knew what her father did. She had always known, in the way children know things they’re not supposed to. The late-night visits, the whispered phone calls, the nights he’d come home with bruises and cuts. Her mother had never talked about it. And when her mother had left, neither did Lena.

But tonight, it felt too real, too close. She had spent years pretending not to know, convincing herself that ignorance was safer, that as long as she didn’t ask, she could live in the illusion of normalcy. But the illusion was crumbling now, cracking under the weight of everything she wasn’t saying.

She reached for the towel, her fingers brushing against the stain. It was cold, damp. She pulled her hand back like it had burned her.

Without thinking, she crossed the room and opened the front door. The night air was cool against her skin, a welcome relief from the stifling tension inside. She stepped out onto the porch, her feet bare against the rough wood. The street was quiet, empty, the houses dark.

For a brief moment, she considered running. Just grabbing her keys and driving away. But where would she go? Who would she tell? She couldn’t escape this. The truth of it was too deeply rooted, woven into her very being. Wherever she went, she would take it with her.

She sat down on the porch steps, her arms wrapped around her knees, and stared out into the night. Her father’s words echoed in her mind again. Don’t tell anyone. She hated how they made her feel. Small. Trapped. Like she was complicit in something she didn’t want to be a part of.

But she wouldn’t tell. She couldn’t.

Because deep down, Lena knew. She always knew.

And that was the worst part of all.