or worse.

“That was as stupid as you could get,” he said bluntly, giving his children a severe look as they sat side by side on Molly’s bed. “And so damn dangerous—”

“I know,” Mack agreed. “I can’t believe I let Molly talk me into it.”

Brock made a rough sound of disapproval. “Don’t blame your sister. That’s pathetic, Mack. It is. You have a brain. Use it.”

The boy nodded, gaze dropping but Molly stared back at her father. “We wouldn’t have to do it if you’d get us a tree,” she said, expressing little of the remorse she’d shown when he’d first entered her room fifteen minutes ago.

“That’s absurd,” Brock snorted “You can’t blame me for nearly losing your eye... or your head.”

“Why won’t you let us have a tree?” she persisted indignantly.

“We have real live trees growing outside. We don’t need to cut one and bring it inside.”

“Why not? They’re pretty,” Molly flashed. “And everybody has one. We want one, too.”

“Well, sneaking off with an ax into the woods isn’t the way to get one.”

“Then how do we get one if you won’t chop one down for us?” Molly demanded.

Brock was losing his temper. “I’m not discussing Christmas trees now.”

“But you never do. You never discuss anything we want to talk about. You just make up all these rules and expect us to follow them—”

“Yes,” he interrupted. “That’s right. I do. You’re the kids. I’m the adult. I make the rules. You obey. See how that works?”

“But your rules don’t make sense,” she protested under her breath.

“Of course they do,” he snapped.

“Maybe to you, but not to us. Some of your rules are just... mean.”

“Mean?”

Her head nodded, her lips pressing flat. “It’s like you’re the Grinch and you hate Christmas—”

“The Grinch?”

She nodded again. “You can’t stand for anyone to play or have fun. You hate it when we want to do something fun. Sometimes I think you don’t even love us!”

Brock’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“Maybe you even hate us!” she flung at him, scrambling off the bed and running to the adjoining bathroom where she slammed the door closed.

Brock stared at the bathroom door in disbelief before turning to Mack, who sat very still on the edge of his sister’s bed.

Mack glanced up at his dad and then looked down again at his hands which were knotting unhappily in his lap.

Brock’s heart pounded as if he’d just run through very deep snow. “Is she being dramatic or does she really feel this way?”

Mack’s head hung lower.

Brock suppressed the queasy sensation in his gut. Did his kids really think he hated them? “Tell me the truth, Mack.”

“I don’t want to speak for her.”

Brock studied his son’s thin slumped shoulders and the curve of his neck. Mack had never been a big, sturdy kid, but he looked downright skinny at the moment. “Then don’t speak for her, speak for yourself. How do you feel? Do you really think I don’t love you?”

“I know you love us,” Mack said in a low voice. He hesitated a long moment. “But... ” His voice faded away. He didn’t finish the sentence.

“But what?”

“But sometimes you seem so... annoyed...by us.