Precise by Rebecca Berto, Lauren McKellar

callous.
    “What did you say?”
    “Nothing,” she says, turning to check the kettle.
    Dad gives her a stern look and tilts his head at her in disapproval. “Nothing to worry about.” He stands between us, intervening before we get any louder. He’s the only one up until now still aware that a six-year-old girl is asleep a few rooms away.
    Mom steps back at this point and diverts all attention from Dad and me. The kettle seems to be the most of her worries.
    I can imagine her whispering under her breath that she doesn’t want me making any regrets for Ella because I can’t erase those things.
    “You think you know it all, that you have the grand answer. Well, I can tell you that you are far from that. You’re impossible to talk to, and to please. You say I’ve got family to turn to for help but you haven’t asked me—not once—if I’m okay. You have no idea what’s going on. When you’re like this, I won’t grovel at your feet for anything.” I puff out my cheeks in fury. “Stay out of my life if you’re just going to make things worse.”
    The air is thick and sticky with heat, which sears through me. I’ll fight irrationally if she takes Ella.
    “I’m not the one who made things worse.”
    In the split second that follows, Dad flings both his palms in between our faces and directs me back to my seat at the table to wait.
    He’s the only thing stopping me from making a physical reaction to her words. Suddenly, I feel horrible. Why would I even think of something so abusive? Stupid, stupid. I need to control my anger, but it’s always wound so tight that it escapes without intention.
    Mom stands in the kitchen and strokes the cup, her mind seemingly worlds farther.
    • • •
    A little voice calls from the hallway door. “Mommy?” Ella stands there with her doll, Elly, lodged in a one-arm cuddle. She rubs her temple with her other hand. Her timing is impeccable. Our time is up.
    “Aw, you’re awake,” I say, rushing to her side.
    “But . . . but what happened?” Her eyes search us. Dad is consoling Mom. The tension is so thick even a young girl is choking on it.
    “Oh, Nana, Pa and I were having a grown-up chat. But I was about to come and get you so we can go home.”
    “Wait,” Dad says, coming over. “We’ll go chat on the steps, yes.”
    “Uh . . . mm.”
    He nods and ushers me to the back door, to “the steps”, which is his trademark site for heart-to-heart chats, a ciggie with friends or a solitary break. In my youth, I attempted (on multiple occasions) to escape “the steps”. My methods included a visit to the toilet or a sudden hunger pang. Dad would wait until I couldn’t drag things out any longer.
    “Nana, will you take Ella down to the park?” he says.
    My fuse is small and burning shorter by the second. “No, Ella, time to go home. Stay here.”
    Ella makes to run to me, but stops and seems too confused to know what she should be doing.
    “Oh, won’t you play with Nana? She said she’ll even play on the swings with you. Plus, Roxy can come along.”
    Ella beams. She turns to Mom who agrees. There’s no going back from here. Ella jumps up and down on the spot for a full minute while Mom gets a few things together and then eventually convinces her she needs to change out of her PJs before they can go. I hadn’t a chance to escape from “the steps” before and I don’t now.
    Dad and I sit down. “She just loves that dog,” Dad says.
    “Too much, if you ask me. Cocker Spaniels and Poodles shouldn’t be allowed to breed.”
    “Why’s that?”
    I rub at a crack in the concrete steps, pluck at a grass tuft. “Because you end up with a Spoodle, like Roxy, and child tantrums.”
    “Only sometimes, darling.”
    “Yeah.”
    Dad tuts. “Roxy’s good for Ella. They both love running after each other.”
    For a moment, I’m lost. I’d forgotten about what happened this morning, everything I don’t remember, but it’s suddenly caught up with me. I think of