Another day, another dollar. That’s what my Gramps used to say before he passed. I was nine years old when he died, but I still remember his smell, the warmth of his chest as I cuddled him. He lived with us right until the end and even though he had retired from his teaching career at that point, he still volunteered at the local homeless shelter. It gives me something to do, he used to say, but I think it was just because he was a really great guy. He had always liked helping people.

Gramps had this unique ability of finding the positives out of nothing. Our family wasn’t very rich – sometimes it was a struggle to pay the bills at the end of the month – but Granddad wasn’t fazed. He would sweep the bills of the table in a dramatic fashion, something that always made me laugh, and then he would pick me up and sing to me. The Beach Boys were my favourite, even though I wasn’t too sure what a T-Bird was. His death in 2007 hit me hard. I was pulled out of school halfway through the day, the grave expressions on my parents’ faces telling me everything I needed to know. It was a freak accident, my mother had explained. He lost his balance and fell down the steps, and hit his head on the concrete. I’m so sorry darling.

I never even got to say goodbye.

The following weeks, months, years, passed in a blur. The musty smell of the church at his funeral, the overcooked chicken and mushy vegetables my mother served to me after being distracted with another argument, the first time my father hit me, those things stick out in my mind the most but not much else. I had never realised how much Gramps had held my family together until he was gone. My once beloved mother was now cold and distant, and my father had proved himself time and again to be a very violent man. I had no other family to lean back on, and my grades were slipping at school. Eventually I just dropped out completely and got a full time job, working at a petrol station. It wasn’t good money, but it was my only chance if I wanted to leave home and find a place of my own.

Another day, another dollar.

I stirred some more salt and pepper into the soup I was making, careful not to ‘over salt’ and anger my Dad. I had learnt over the years what he likes and I always tried my very best to follow his rules and stay out of trouble. For the last couple of weeks he had been a bit more relaxed, ever since his boss had hinted to him that he might be getting a raise, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I timed the completion of the meal to when he arrived home in the early evening so the food was still hot, and I made sure to have the dishes washed and the table set as well. I set the pot of soup and a plate of rolls down on the table just as he pulled into the driveway.

“Mum! Dinner!” I called.

The door opened and Dad walked in. I could see immediately that he was in a good mood. He grinned at me as he saw the food on the table, putting his briefcase down and taking off his jacket, before sitting down at the head of the table.

“Looks good, Jamie.”

I hadn’t seen his eyes sparkle like that in a while. It was almost unnerving, but I decided not to dwell on it. I supposed I could enjoy it while it lasted.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Guess what happened at work today?”

“Obviously nothing worth reporting, if you’re bringing it up like this.” I replied, sarcastically. The words fell off my tongue before I could stop them. I was ready to immediately take them back, but instead of the stern look and the warning “Don’t backchat me, boy” for my sarcasm like I would normally get, my father just grinned wider.

“I got the raise!”

“Well done James!”

My mother’s cry of joy startled me. She strode into the room and bent down and kissed my father on the cheek. He laughed, standing up and reaching for her. I flinched, getting ready to protect my Mum from him if I needed to, but all he did was pull her into his arms and she even hugged him back, both my parents giggling like young children.

Something was wrong here. I didn’t trust it.

I sat down at the other end of the table and buttered a roll. My mother talked animatedly about her day, how she had finally weeded the garden and made a carrot cake and how she should definitely get back into baking again. I soaked it in, enjoying the sound of my mother’s voice. It had been so long since I had heard her talk properly. My Dad didn’t interrupt once, apparently just as absorbed.

Something was really wrong.

“How was work Jamie?” Dad asked me, dipping a roll into his soup. It was over-salted, but he hadn’t mentioned it yet. Normally the soup would be on the floor and I would be cleaning it up, a new bruise forming on my face. I would trail up the stairs to find my mother and try to comfort her somehow, but I would be met with a locked door. Dad would stumble home at 2am, trying to forget about the person he’d become after the death of his father with several glasses of scotch.

It wasn’t happening though. My parents were both looking at me with love and warmth in their eyes, genuinely interested in what I was going to say.

This was wrong.

This was so wrong.

“Are you feeling okay, baby? You look like you’re about to faint.”

These people aren’t my parents.

“I’m alright,” I mumbled, standing up abruptly, knocking over my chair.

“Jamie!” There was only concern, no hatred or anger in the voice of the man sitting in front of me as he called out the name we shared, or at least the name my abusive father and I shared. He sounded worried. He sounded like he loved me.

“I’m fine,” I said, before stumbling over to the kitchen sink and throwing up the contents of my stomach.

Another day, another dollar.

I’m still not entirely sure what happened. There’s no locked doors anymore, no 2am scotch, no beatings, no bruises. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve dreamed it all, but then I smell the cookies my Mum’s baking and hear the sounds of her laughter and I know that it just can’t be a dream. I look up at my Dad’s face and he smiles at me and I see so much of his father, my Gramps, in his eyes. I write all my ideas down in a notebook. Maybe they’re angels my Granddad sent down, just for me. Maybe I actually died during one of my Dad’s beatings and this is what heaven’s like. Maybe I’ve just gone insane.

Whatever it is, life goes on.

I hope you like it, sorry it's so late :) any constructive criticism is totally welcome. I'm not really that happy with it but I thought since I spent so much time on it I may as well post it