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snapped.
    Verna felt her nerves fray, but she tried to push it aside. Greetings, like everything else, were a no-win proposition with her father. If she was too chipper, he accused her of being fake, too dour, he accused her of moping. Today, it appeared, would be no different, so she steeled herself for the incoming onslaught.
    “What the hell is this?” he said, waving a piece of paper in the air.
    “I don’t know,” she said, “let me see it.”
    She’d tried to keep her tone even, respectful, but Vernon’s eyes bulged and he pulled himself up to his full height. He was formidable in every right, but even more so for a man in his early seventies, and Verna had clearly inherited her stout build and height from him. When he wasn’t nitpicking every little thing she did or said, Verna would sometimes remember how she used to look up to him, think he was the strongest, bravest, greatest man in the world. Now wasn’t one of those times.
    “Here,” he said, shoving the paper toward her.
    Reading it quickly, she saw that it was the weekly order sheet.
    “It’s the order sheet. Looks okay to me,” she said with a shrug.
    “‘Looks okay to me,’” he responded, disgust tingeing his words. “It would.”
    The insult hit its mark, and Verna felt herself tear up before she quickly got her emotions under control. The hum of conversation that was the soundtrack in Love’s had faded to a murmur, and Verna decided that they should move this friendly family chat elsewhere. Vernon Love was legendary for his rants and tantrums, but he was next-level mad today, and she didn’t want the customers to be uncomfortable. She turned on a heel and walked toward the storeroom, certain her father would follow. When they reached the room, she turned back to him.
    “Now, what is the matter? The truck came by yesterday; I unloaded it myself.”
    A white lie, but she felt entitled to it.
    “What kind of flour did I order?”
    “Good Golden.”
    “And what kind was delivered?”
    “Good Golden.”
    “So then why did you send it back?”
    “That stuff is more expensive and not as high quality. The brand I ordered is cheaper and better, so I sent the other back. We’ll have it today or tomorrow, so we won’t run out. Don’t worry; it’s all taken care of.”
    “Oh, so now you decide what gets bought in my restaurant? This is my place, Verna. Mine. I say what goes on here, no one else. Do you understand me?” he said, voice almost earsplitting.
    Ordinarily, she’d just nod and smile and let him blow off steam, but not today. No, today she felt like pushing back, if only just a little.
    “I don’t understand, Daddy. What’s the big deal?”
    “It’s not your place to understand; it is your place to do as I say.”
    She was defensive and insulted that he wouldn’t even relent enough to allow her to make this, something that was only the smallest of decisions, and her frustration won the moment.
    “You let me open and close, do your books, but you don’t trust me to pick a brand of flour?” Her face twisted into a grimace. “That makes no sense.”
    “Verna…” he said, his voice thick with rage and warning.
    “I’m just saying, you should trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
    Uttering those words was like flipping a switch, and she could see the exact moment he completely lost his cool.
    “Dammit, child. Don’t you tell me what you know!” He threw the piece of paper at her face, where it hit her chin and then fell to the ground. “You know what,” he said after a moment, the instant calm in his voice chilling her. “I’ve had enough of you and your crap. You lord around this place like you own it, but I’m not dead, and as long as I’m still above the dirt, nobody, and I mean nobody, is gonna contradict me. You’re done. Go get your shit out of my office, give me my keys, and don’t come back.”
    He held out his hand expectantly, but she just gaped, her gaze moving from his face to his extended