YOU ARE NOTHING BUT MY LAPDOG

TWO DAYS LATER

The weekend had come and the knock on the door was heavy, the kind that seemed to thud with a sense of foreboding rather than a simple request for entry. When I opened it, the sight that met my eyes was one I'd half-expected but never truly wanted to confront Gregory Marks, my father, standing in the doorway with an expression that was a harsh blend of disdain and displeasure.