Saturday, June 24th #3
We both get out and walk across the street. My heart is hammering. When we reach the front door, I knock twice. I glance at my dad. He squeezes my shoulder, giving me a quick nod just as footsteps approach.
A guy around my age opens the door—and it’s wild how much of myself I see in him. He’s shorter by a few inches, not as broad, but the resemblance is unmistakable. Dark-blond hair, light eyes—steel blue instead of green—but the same mouth.
“Yeah?” he says, eyeing us warily.
“Hey, you’re Mark, right?” my dad asks when I can’t seem to get words out.
“Can I help you?” Mark asks, suspicious now. I don’t blame him. If two random guys showed up at my door and knew my name, I’d be on edge too.
“We’re actually here to talk to your dad,” my dad says, keeping his voice warm and steady. He’s trying hard not to come off like the military guy he is—hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, posture relaxed.
“Uh… okay,” Mark says slowly, not taking his eyes off us. He leans back slightly and calls into the house, “Dad? There are a couple of dudes here asking for you.”
“Who is it?” a man calls back. Then footsteps, and a moment later, Cormac appears next to his son.
He stops short when he sees us. His eyes land on me, and something flashes in them—fear? Disbelief? Recognition?
“Hey, Cormac,” my dad says calmly.
Cormac’s brows pull together. His eyes flick between us, like he’s trying to connect the dots.
“Who are you?” he asks, pulling Mark a little closer to him.
“I’m Frank Soult,” my dad says, and rests a hand lightly on my shoulder. “And this is my son, Ronan.”
Cormac blinks. “Wait… you—” He stares at me. “I saw you earlier. At my store.”
“Yeah, you did,” my dad says. “Ronan’s your nephew.”
Silence follows as the words sink in. Cormac stares at me again—really stares—his eyes scanning my face, lingering on the scar around my left eye.
“You’re my sister’s son?” he finally says. His voice is thick with disbelief… and something like love, I think.
I nod.
“Jesus. You look just like her. And… and my dad,” he says quietly.
“So I’ve been told,” I say.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
Cormac frowns. “That would’ve made my sister… seventeen?”
“Yeah,” my dad says. “We had our first son, Steve, at sixteen. Then Ronan came the year after.”
Just then, a woman descends the stairs behind Cormac—presumably his wife. “What’s going on, Mac?”
Cormac turns to her. “Ashley, this is Frank.” He motions toward my dad. “And this is Ronan. Rica’s son.”
Ashley’s mouth falls open. “Rica’s son? Your nephew?”
Cormac nods, lips tight. “Apparently so.”
“Oh my god,” she breathes, stepping closer. “Please, come in!”
We follow them into the house. Cormac leads us to the living room, and the five of us sit down.
The house is bright and tidy, with worn hardwood floors that creak slightly underfoot.
Light furniture, heavy white curtains, and the faint scent of flowers fill the space.
A blue sofa and matching loveseat frame a wooden coffee table stacked with oversized books on Bauhaus architecture.
Family photos cover the mantel and shelves.
We never had photos in my house.
Cormac gestures for my dad and me to take the loveseat while he and Mark take the couch.
“Do you want water? Coffee?” Ashley asks as she disappears briefly into the kitchen.
“Water would be great, thanks,” my dad says, his hands resting awkwardly on his knees.
“Nothing for me. Thanks,” I say, and glance around the living room. It’s so… restful.
“You built that coffee table?” my dad asks, nodding toward the slab of walnut wood with hairpin legs in the center of the room.
“Yeah.” Cormac motions behind us. “That built-in, too. It started as a sort of hobby, until I had an entire woodworking shop in my garage,” he chuckles.
“No kidding,” my dad says. “Looks great in your home, too.”
“Ashley’s the design buff,” Cormac says. “I just build the stuff she wants.”
Mark grins. “That’s pretty much their whole dynamic. She dreams it, he builds it.”
Ashley reappears with glasses of water and a plate of cookies. “Don’t let them fool you. Mac has impeccable taste.”
Cormac leans back on the couch, his smile fading into something quieter as he studies me again.
“When I saw you at the store earlier,” he says, “it was like looking at a ghost. You looked so damn familiar… I just couldn’t place it.” Then his voice softens. “How is she? Rica. Is she… is she doing okay? I haven’t spoken to her in a long time. I think about her all the time.”
My dad clears his throat, glancing at me before answering. “Far as we know, she’s okay. But… I haven’t seen or spoken to her in over a year.”
Cormac frowns.
“Your sister… she’s in prison,” my dad says.
Ashley gasps, clutching her husband’s arm. “Oh my god. What happened?”
But Cormac is still looking at me. His eyes drop to the scar below my eye, then the much-smaller one on my top lip. His jaw tightens.
“She gave you that,” he says quietly.
My shoulders stiffen. I nod. “Yeah.”
“God,” he sighs, closing his eyes. “I don’t even know what to say.” He looks back at me. “How bad was it for you?”
I hate talking about it. Hate remembering. “Bad,” I say, staring at the floor. “Really bad.”
“Can I ask what happened?” Mark asks, ignoring the look his mom shoots him.
I look at him. Like, really look at him.
There are no scars. No bruises. No cuts.
No signs at all that his parents ever laid a hand on him.
His eyes are bright, his face relaxed. His shoulders don’t look like they bear the weight of the world.
He doesn’t come across as wearing heavy armor, always anticipating the next fight, the next hit.
He looks like he had a great upbringing, was loved and doted on by two caring parents.
His body language is open and inviting, rather than closed off and protective, as he sits next to his dad.
I wouldn’t be caught dead sitting next to my mom.
I could leave this house right now, never asking a single question, and still I’d know, without a shadow of doubt, that Cormac managed to do what I so desperately want for myself.
He broke the cycle of abuse for his family.
“She beat me within an inch of my life almost two years ago,” I finally say. “I was in a coma for a week.”
Ashley gasps.
“Rica beat Ronan so badly,” my dad says, “he had over twenty broken bones. Collapsed lungs. A ruptured spleen. I wasn’t sure he was going to make it. That’s when I found out what had been happening… that she’d been abusing him his whole life.”
“God,” Cormac mutters, rubbing his chin, lost in thought. “I never imagined she would… that she…” He shakes his head.
“Your mother came to my house last November,” my dad says.
Cormac’s head snaps up.
“She stopped by after visiting Rica in prison. Said she wanted to talk to Ronan. To tell him about Rica’s past. About what your dad did to her… and to you.”
Cormac’s expression hardens. He says nothing for a long moment, lips pressed into a thin line.
“My dad was abusive, and his dad before him, and so on,” Cormac sighs. “My baby sister…”
Ashley’s hand moves to the back of his neck, gently stroking. She knows. She’s always known he had another sister.
Cormac swallows hard. “My dad would hit Rica and me pretty regularly. It was always about respect and obedience. If we talked back, if we got bad grades, if we made him look bad in any way—he’d lash out.
And he hit my mom, too. If she tried to defend us, he’d turn on her.
If I stepped in, it just made things worse. He loved using the broom handle.”
My jaw tightens. “My mom hit me with the broom handle, too,” I say quietly.
Cormac meets my eyes and nods with a look that holds nothing but understanding. No shock. No pity. Just empathy.
“My sister and I… we were never good enough for him,” he says. “I gave up trying pretty early, but Rica didn’t. She kept trying to meet his impossible standards. She was obedient. So smart. A hard worker. Sweet—so damn sweet. I loved her more than anything.”
He pauses, rubbing his hands together as if trying to warm himself.
“I tried to protect her. But every time I did, he’d just hit her harder. Hit me harder. It didn’t stop anything. Just made it all more brutal.”
Cormac leans forward slightly, voice quieter now.
“On my eighteenth birthday, we had a bad fight. He wanted me to enlist in the military. I refused. I knew it would provoke him, but I couldn’t keep doing what he wanted.
He called me a worthless screwup, said I’d never be anything, and then he tried to beat me into submission.
Pretty sure he broke a couple ribs. Two fingers.
Probably my nose. I had a cut under my left eye. ”
He touches a small scar on his cheekbone.
“That night, I left. I packed what I could, took the little cash I had, and drove off. I didn’t say goodbye.
I just… left. I sold my car at a junkyard, bought a piece-of-shit replacement, and drove until I landed here in Camden.
I started going by Mac instead of Cormac.
Took Ashley’s last name when we got married. I never looked back.”
He breathes in deeply, voice shaking.
“I thought about Rica all the time. I wanted to check in, to make sure she was okay, but I was terrified. I didn’t think I could survive going back to that life. And I left her behind.”
Ashley speaks gently beside him. “It took Mac a long time to open up about everything. He didn’t tell me until I got pregnant with Mark.”
Cormac swipes quickly at his eyes. “I was so scared of becoming a dad. I thought—what if I’m like him? What if that violence is in me too?”
The silence that follows is dense. I stare down at the coffee table, at the candlesticks and the glossy books that haven’t been thrown or broken or used as weapons. My throat tightens.
“My girlfriend is pregnant,” I say, not looking up. “And I’m really scared I won’t be able to break the cycle.”