Three more days.
Counting down felt like clinging to a lifeline — three sunrises until my father arrived; three more days of pretending the house wasn’t a battlefield; three more days of smiling while the storm inside me kept raging, the same storm I’d shouldered for half my life.
It struck me as absurd that after all this time, it was still my father who would rescue me. Age had creased him, years had hollowed parts of him, but he had not forgotten the little girl taken from him when my mother remarried. He remembered me when others chose to look away.
As a child I’d loathed him, fed lies by my mother about his failures — that he ruined our family, that he’d denied me what I deserved, that he’d been selfish and weak. Only later did the truth surface: he didn’t walk away — she did. She cheated, abandoned him, and dragged me into a life that never truly accepted me.
When she had Sabrina — the shining child, the second chance — I became the background, the shadow tucked into corners. Sabrina perfected the smile that hid a blade. Whenever my mother flew into a rage over something I supposedly did, it was usually Sabrina who had planted the seed. I was the mistake, the leftover piece. Sabrina made sure I never forgot that.
And nothing had changed. I remained the afterthought — the one who only got in the way.
My thoughts shattered at the sound of a familiar voice downstairs.
My mother — home after weeks away.
I moved slowly into the living room. Gift bags spilled across the floor like a small, bright forest; boxes and ribbons littered the coffee table. Adrian lounged nearby with a glass of wine. Julian flicked through his phone. Sabrina unpacked presents with all the practiced gentleness of a daughter who had earned every sparkle.
For me — nothing.
Again.
Sabrina, theatrical as ever, glanced toward me and purred, “Mom, what about Samantha?”
My mother didn’t bother to look up. “Oh, I forgot she exists. She never leaves the house anyway. What could I possibly buy her?”
Then, with that same long-practiced look she reserved for me, she added, “Since you’re standing there, make us lunch. We’re hungry.”
I nodded and retreated to the kitchen, tasting blood from holding my tongue too hard.
I kept my hands moving — chopping, stirring, covering the silence with motion — hoping the rhythm would steady whatever was collapsing inside me.
Sabrina swept in as if she had the right to be near every surface. “I’ll help,” she chimed, overly bright. “Wouldn’t want you to hog all the attention.”
“I’ve got it,” I muttered, barely looking her way.
She leaned close enough that her breath tickled my cheek. “When are you finally going to leave us?” she asked, silk laced with venom.
“Soon,” I said without blinking. “Don’t worry.”
“Perfect,” she trilled. “We really don’t have room for you anymore. By the way, we’ll be moving your things to the storage room for a while — renovations, you understand?”
My spine stiffened. “Excuse me?”
She raised her voice so everyone could hear. “We’ll need to move her things to storage temporarily. Renovations, you know. Hope that’s alright.”
“Is something happening?” Adrian called from the living room.
Sabrina made a wounded face. “Samantha got angry when I asked her to move her things. She refuses to cooperate.”
Adrian’s reply was immediate and merciless. “This isn’t your home, Samantha. You don’t get a say.”
Julian didn’t even glance up from his phone. “You don’t pay the bills. We’re generous to let you stay at all. You should be grateful for a storage room.”
Sabrina sighed in exaggerated sympathy. “Sorry, but they’re right. I’ll buy you a mattress. You’ll manage.”
I could not speak. I left the kitchen before the words could break me open.
“He’s ignoring us now?” Adrian barked. “Say something, Samantha! Cat got your tongue?”
I paused on the stairs, turned, and smiled at him — a cold, small smile.
“You disappoint me, Adrian.”
His expression twisted. “What do you mean by that?”
“Enough,” Sabrina said quickly, moving between us with feigned concern. “Let’s not argue.”
Of course they rallied around her; they always did. I climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last, until I reached my door and nearly screamed.
Noah sat on the floor, toys and paints scattered like a riot of color. His tiny palms were stamped in red, blue, and green.
My paintings.
I’d started painting again in secret — a quiet way to earn my own money, to buy myself something without begging for it. This canvas was almost sold; a client had finally seen the worth I’d been denying myself.
Now it was smeared, ruined.
“Noah!” I shouted, voice breaking. “What are you doing?”
He looked at me, eyes wide and innocent, the bright smears on his hands smudging down his wrists. “I was coloring! Aunt Sabrina told me to!”
“That’s not coloring!” I cried, grabbing the canvas and seeing my colors streaked and blended into chaos. “That’s my work!”
He began to wail, a high, cutting cry. “You’re mean! You’re a bad grandma!” he screamed, and hurled a cup of paint at me. The lid popped off; a burst of yellow splattered across my dress, my hair, my face.
Something inside me, already raw from years of small violences, finally shattered.
I slapped him.
