I’m eighteen. I graduated about two months ago, and I work part-time at our local supermarket. I’m a cashier, stocker, and any other little thing in between. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday I work from one to nine thirty. Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday leaves me time with my mother when she’s home from work, and time to write my stories or work on my novel.

I walked in the door around ten p.m. on Friday evening, and rubbed my face tiredly. Locking the front door, I shuffled to my room where I kicked off my shoes and socks, and put my keys, wallet, phone, and pocket knife on the nightstand. I draped my work vest and polo on my desk chair for tomorrow.

Right as I got ready to head out of my room to greet my mother in the living room, my cell rang. "Of course," I grumbled. "Who could be calling me at this hour?" But, even though I was sure it was a lousy telemarketer, I chose to look. Here, instead, I found it was my father.

An ugly scowl crossed my face. I immediately flicked the decline bubble. Then, pondering for a moment after my ringtone went silent, I awakened my phone from sleep, and, going into my contacts, blocked my father’s number from my number. I sat down on my bed and breathed a sigh after turning my phone on sleep. Three months… I need him out of my life now.

I softly placed my phone back on the nightstand. Then, striding out into the living room, I grabbed our home phone from its base, went through the options, and set it up to block calls from my father’s numbers as well. I don’t know, but I’m sure he’d be dumb, and desperate enough to call home in order to reach me. He probably wouldn’t care if he broke my mother’s heart more.

My mother extracted herself from the tablet she’d fervently been typing at. I replaced the phone in its base and came to look at her with a weak attempt at a smile.

“How was work, Mickey?”

I stretched myself out away from the couch. “Work,” I replied, explaining everything that needed explained.

“What was up with the phone?”

“I was blocking a few numbers.”

“Your father’s?” my mother asked, raising an eyebrow.

I nodded my head.

“He try calling again?”

Again, I nodded. My mother gave me a sympathetic smile. “You don’t have to feel like you have to protect me from him. I am forty-five. I think I can handle your father.”

“It’s not just you. I don’t want to have any dealings with that man!”

Mother nodded her head and returned her gaze to her tablet screen. Soon, she was back to taping furiously at the screen. And, I let her, not bothering her anymore, as when she tapped as furiously as that, I knew she was secretly blowing steam. So, instead, I let my hand fall to the remote. I flipped on the television to a late-night news broadcast.