Mommy never wanted her.
She made it clear in little ways. A too-tight braid. A sigh when Clarabelle spilled juice. The way she’d sneer at her in the hallway and say, “You’re going to be nothing, just like your mother was before me. You think a pretty face gets you anywhere?”
Clarabelle would smile anyway. Sometimes she’d even wink and say, “Daddy likes my pretty face.”
That always earned her a slap.
But the bruises were nothing. Not compared to the way Daddy touched her cheek at dinner and said, “Let her eat what she wants, sweetheart. She’s growing up.”
Daddy let her kiss boys.
He caught her once, in the backyard, lips sticky with cherry soda and laughter still on her breath. A neighbor boy — the kind Mommy hated.
Clarabelle froze, but Daddy just tilted his head and smiled, soft and secret.
“Did you like it?” he asked gently, brushing a curl behind her ear.
She nodded, cheeks red.
“Then don’t let her scare you out of it,” he said. “You’re allowed to want things.”
Sometimes, when Mommy was out with her friends, Daddy would sneak her the chocolates Mommy kept locked away. Or
paint her nails in glittery pink polish. Or hold her in his lap and stroke her hair while she told him about the boys who looked at her in class.
One night, Mommy had screamed.
“I don’t know why you coddle her! She’s going to be a whore, just like—”
“Enough.” Daddy’s voice had been like thunder.
Clarabelle had hidden behind the couch, heart pounding. Later that night, he found her curled up in her blanket and carried her to his study.
“She doesn’t see you,” he whispered. “But I do. You’re my good girl, my clever little darling. Mommy just wants control. But me? I want you happy.”
Clarabelle had looked up at him, eyes wide. “Even if I kiss more boys?”
He chuckled. “Especially if you do.”