fwriction

I am in love with this story, originally published in Guernica. Elliott Holt is a refreshing voice in fiction writing, and I am excited to have read her work and share it with you:

I cried while I chopped the onions—I always did, such a relentless bout of tears that the skin on my entire face began to sting. I splashed cold water in my eyes in an attempt to wash out the hurt while my father jerked around the room, cursing at every opportunity. He had stiff joints—souvenirs from college football injuries—and his movement around the kitchen had the halting quality of a wind-up toy. He often complained about the fact that my mother gave him so little notice when she decided to host dinner parties. “She invites these people and just assumes I’ll do the work,” he said. But it was my mother’s work that had paid the bills in our house since his law career floundered. He had let her down; she felt entitled to be taken care of.