“I hate Hannah,” I announced at the dinner table one night.
My father looked up from his plate, startled. “Never say hate. You don’t hate anything. That’s a very strong word.”
“But I do. I hate her,” I whined. “She told everyone at school we were poor.”
“Grace, we’re not poor.” He pierced a piece of meat with his fork and brought it to his mouth. “And you don’t hate her.”
“I do,” I screamed. “And I hate you.” I shoved my plate with both hands and it hit the floor, shattering.
My father kept his eyes on me the entire time. “That’s it, go to your room.”
Hate became my new favourite word. I said it all the time at school, to my friends, to my siblings. I hate that, I hate her, I hate him, I hate it. I felt like it had more meaning because I wasn’t allowed to say it. It was an act of rebellion. At seven years old, I didn’t yet know the power of hatred.
I hated Jessica. I hated her face. I hated her teeth and her skin. I hated the freckles on her chest. I hated her red hair and her stupid brown eyes. I hated her voice. I hated that she was successful and had money. I hated that she was helping Jack. I hated that I let her touch him in front of me without saying anything.
Jack had loved me once and now he didn’t. And it was all her fault.
As I sat there, blaming Jessica, I wished my father was there to tell me I didn’t hate her, that hate was too strong a word, and that everything was going to be all right.