"You need to move your things to the storage room," my mother announced, her voice devoid of any maternal warmth as she stood in the doorway of what had been my bedroom for the past six years. "Zoey needs space to settle in properly."
I clutched my medication bottle tighter, the familiar ache in my chest flaring up. "Mother, I don't understand why—"
"It's quite simple, Evelyn," my father interrupted, his expression hardening. "Your accusations and hysterics are disturbing the family harmony. Zoey has just recovered from surgery, and she needs peace and quiet."
"Peace and quiet that I'm apparently not allowed to have," I murmured, watching as Zoey breezed past us, her arm casually draped around Mateo's waist.
"Oh, don't be dramatic," Zoey said with a dismissive wave. "It's just temporary... isn't it?"
The way she emphasized those last words made my stomach clench. Seven days. That's all I had left.
"Your sister needs the master bedroom," my mother continued, already beginning to strip the sheets from the bed Mateo and I had shared. "The natural light is better for her recovery."
I watched as she bundled my nightgown—the soft blue one Mateo had once said brought out my eyes—and tossed it carelessly into a box. "Where will I sleep?"
"The storage room has a cot," my father replied without looking at me. "And your things will fit there nicely."
The storage room. A cramped space at the end of the hall, barely large enough for my clothes and books, let alone a person. But I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. What choice did I have?
As I gathered my medications and personal items, I caught sight of my son watching from the hallway, his small face confused and worried.
"Mommy? Why are you moving?"
Before I could answer, Zoey swooped down and picked him up. "Sometimes grown-ups need to switch rooms, sweetheart. Don't worry—everything's fine."
But it wasn't fine. Nothing was fine.
---
The next morning, I woke to the sound of laughter—Zoey's melodic trill and Mateo's deeper chuckle—filtering through the thin walls of my new quarters.
I dragged myself up, my body heavy with fatigue and the weight of my condition. As I opened the storage room door, I froze.
Zoey stood in the kitchen, wearing my favorite silk robe—the pale pink one Mateo had given me for our anniversary. Around her neck gleamed my grandmother's pearl necklace, the one thing I'd managed to keep from my childhood.
"Oh, you're up," she said with false brightness. "I borrowed a few things. Hope you don't mind."
I said nothing, my fingers instinctively touching my chest where the familiar pain had intensified.
"Don't worry," she continued, twirling the pearls between her fingers. "I'll take good care of them."
Mateo entered, his eyes barely acknowledging me as he kissed Zoey's cheek. "The decorator will be here at noon," he told her. "To discuss the changes to the house."
"Changes?"
"We're updating the décor," Zoey explained, her smile sharp as a blade. "Freshening things up a bit. Getting rid of... old patterns."
I watched as they moved through what had been my home, erasing every trace of my existence with each decision.
---
That evening, I found my son alone in the living room, coloring quietly.
"Would you like me to read you a story?" I asked, sitting beside him on the floor.
His face lit up—for a moment. "Can we read the dragon book?"
"Of course."
I pulled him close as we turned the pages together, his small body warm against mine. For a few precious minutes, everything else faded away.
"Mommy," he whispered, pointing to a picture of a castle. "Will you build me a castle like this one day?"
"Maybe," I said softly, pressing a kiss to his head. "If I can."
"Excuse me," Zoey's voice cut through our moment. "It's bedtime, and you shouldn't be bothering Evelyn. She's not feeling well."
"I'm not bothering her," my son protested.
Zoey's eyes hardened as she looked at me. "Evelyn, you really shouldn't be upsetting him with promises you can't keep."
She knelt before my son, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, sweetie, Evelyn might have to go away for a while. She's very sick."
"That's not true," I protested weakly.
"Is it?" Zoey asked, her eyes never leaving my son's face. "Well, if she stays sick, she might have to go away forever."
My son's face crumpled, and he pulled away from me. "You're dangerous," he whispered, echoing words he must have overheard. "You're not my real mommy."
As he ran to Zoey's outstretched arms, I felt something break inside me—something far more vital than my failing heart.
