Free Give Me Truth by Bill Condon

answer.
    â€˜I don’t care what Mum says. You’ll be home again soon and it’ll be just like it was before.’
    â€˜No. It won’t ever be the same.’
    â€˜All right then. So what? If you don’t come home for a while I’ll still see you every day. I’ll bring Allie, too. It’s going to be okay, Dad. You never have to say goodbye to me.’
    â€˜I did something, David. Last night.’
    My mind flashes immediately to his bloodied knuckles.
    â€˜What, Dad?’
    â€˜I always told myself that I was living an honourable life. The pursuit of excellence. Service to others. I based every day on those principles. Last night everything was blurred. This morning I see clearly what I’ve become, how far I’ve fallen. There is no way back.’
    â€˜What do you mean? What are you talking about?’
    â€˜I can’t be here with you anymore. It is that simple.’
    â€˜But –’ think of something, anything – ‘what about your job? You never take a day off. You have to be here for that.’
    â€˜The business was always for my family. Now there’s no reason. For anything.’
    My mouth is open and I’m breathing hard. I’ve been scared before, but not like this. Other people talk about doing things. Dad does them. He’s really leaving.
    â€˜Go back to your classroom.’
    â€˜No!’
    â€˜Turn around. Walk away. Now, please.’
    â€˜No. I won’t. You can hit me again if you like. Go for it.’
    â€˜I will not hit you. Never ever again.’
    â€˜I don’t care what happened last night. Nothing matters. But I’m not going anywhere. You’re my Dad. You have to stay. You don’t say goodbye. You don’t – ’
    â€˜David.’
    â€˜No, no, I’m not listening. I don’t want to hear this.’
    â€˜Goodbye.’
    The word crashes down like the last nail in a coffin.

Dinnertime and we’re all seated around the table. It feels like we’re having a tea party in a war zone. It’s Mum and Dad’s war. And we’re all casualties.
    We’re eating pasta. This is Rory’s favourite food because it allows him to be ultra-disgusting. He knows how much I hate seeing him with long pieces of pasta dangling from his mouth and, if he can get away with it, his nose. Tonight he doesn’t do any creative eating. He still makes a mess but it’s not on purpose. I guess even he can sense the cloud that hangs over us.
    Mum and Dad sit opposite each other, avoiding eye contact. The only sounds come from chomps and slurps until Dad pipes up with: ‘Thanks for this, Denise. It’s very tasty.’
    Mum’s fork makes the trip from the plate to her mouth without missing a beat. Dad’s words tumble down and die.
    When Rory burps I tell him he’s disgusting, because he expects it, but secretly, the sound is so welcome I feel like cheering.
    After dinner the chill factor coming off Mum drives Dad away, so I help wash the dishes. Rory never has to do them because he’s too young and too clumsy. Besides, he has to rush back to his room so he can blow up things in a computer game called, I suspect, Blowing Up Things . Any other time I’d be glad to be alone with Mum, but now I feel the chill too. There’s ice hanging from her every word. The coldness isn’t directed at me, it’s become a part of her. We don’t have our Saturday morning girl-time anymore. She’s too busy. Frozen with anger.
    As we stack the plates I find it difficult to talk to her. I’d be so hurt if she pushed me away. But I have to try.
    â€˜Mum?’
    â€˜What?’ She has her back to me and doesn’t move. I wrap both arms around her. ‘What is it? I’m tired and I want to go to bed.’
    â€˜I understand, Mum. What Dad did was awful. I say give him heaps, make him suffer. But not for the rest of his life. It was one bad thing