She never quite liked that word. She didn’t like the way it rang in her ears; the way the sound lingered, echoing. Every time someone uttered that word, it took her back to her childhood.
Her father would call her that, every crack of day, every close of day. He used it as a nick name when he shoved her into her room, tucked her into bed (grinding his teeth as he did so), and when he passed her the plate of omelette — with a clatter that alarmed her dog.
Every time someone uttered that word, she’d close her eyes to see her father’s beetle eyes loom back at her.
People thought she hated being called sentimental.
But it was the “mental.”