Uncle Malcolm
I stood at the foot of her bed and looked at her like she was nothing but a mistake that refused to stay buried.
"Are you happy now?" I asked slowly, letting every word sink deep. "Happy that you have dragged my name through the dirt?"
She didn't move.
After everything I had done for her. Everything.
"I fed you," I continued, my voice rising. "I gave you a roof over your head. I let you carry my name. My blood. And this is how you repay me?" I laughed, sharp and bitter. "I regret the day you were born."
Still nothing.
That silence snapped something in me.
"Aren't you the one I'm talking to?" I barked. "Will you stand up from that bed when I speak to you?"
Slowly, too slowly, she sat up. She didn't look at me. Her eyes stayed fixed on the window, like the world outside mattered more than the man who owned her life.
"Clara," I said, grinding my teeth. "I said stand up and look at me when I'm talking to you."
