Just three more days.
Three more days until my father comes to pick me up.
Three more days of pretending that everything is okay.
Three more days of smiling through a storm I’ve weathered for half a lifetime.
It was strange, really. Even after everything, it was still my father who came through for me. Despite his age, despite the years that passed, he remembered me, the daughter ripped away from him the day my mother remarried.
I used to hate him. As a little girl, I believed the lies my mother fed me — that he destroyed our family, that he was the reason I didn’t have the life I deserved. That he was weak, careless, selfish. But years later, I learned the truth.
He didn’t leave us. She did. She cheated on him. Abandoned him. And took me with her into a new life that never truly welcomed me.
And when she had Kate — her golden child, her second chance — I became the shadow they shoved into corners.
Kate always knew how to twist a knife with a smile. When our mother would get angry over something she believed I did, it was usually because Kate had whispered poison behind my back. I was the mistake, the leftover. Kate made sure I knew it.
And now? Nothing had changed. I was still the afterthought. The one who was always in the way.
My thoughts shattered when I heard a voice downstairs sharp, familiar.
My mother.
I blinked. She hadn’t been home in weeks. I walked slowly into the living room and saw her surrounded by gift bags, boxes, and ribbons. Johann sat beside her, sipping wine. Samuel was on his phone. And Kate was helping unpack the gifts like a glowing daughter who’d earned them all.
There was nothing for me.
Again.
Kate, ever the performer, glanced at me and cooed, “Mom, what about Samantha?”
Our mother didn’t even look up. “Oh, I forgot about her. It’s not like she goes anywhere. She just stays in the house. What would I even buy her?”
Then, looking at me with that same look she’s worn for years, she added, “Since you’re standing there, go make us something to eat. We haven’t had lunch.”
I nodded and turned away, biting my tongue so hard I could taste blood.
In the kitchen, I kept my hands busy — chopping, boiling, pretending I wasn’t breaking apart inside.
Kate waltzed in and stood beside me, smiling like we were two sisters who had grown up baking cookies.
“I’ll help,” she said, too chipper. “Wouldn’t want you to get all the attention, after all.”
“I’ve got it,” I muttered, barely looking at her.
She leaned in, close enough for her breath to tickle my cheek.
“When will you finally leave our lives?” she whispered, sweetly venomous.
I didn’t hesitate. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gone soon.”
“Great,” she chirped. “Because we really don’t have room for you anymore. Oh, by the way, we’ll be moving your things to the storage room. You’ll stay there for a bit, renovations, you understand?”
I froze. “What did you just say?”
“I said,” she raised her voice now, loud enough for the others to hear, “we’ll need to move your things to the storage room temporarily. For renovations.”
“What’s going on?” Johann called from the other room.
Kate pouted. “Samantha raised her voice at me. I told her we needed to move her things but I guess she didn’t want to move.”
Johann’s response was instant, brutal. “So what? This isn’t your house, Samantha. You don’t get a say here.”
Samuel chimed in from the couch, not even glancing up. “You don’t even pay bills. We’re nice enough to let you stay in the storage room. Don’t act like you’re owed something.”
Kate sighed theatrically. “Sorry, but they’re right. I’ll get you a mattress or something. You’ll be fine.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I simply walked out of the kitchen.
“Now she’s ignoring us?” Johann barked. “Where’s your tongue, Samantha? Cat got it?”
I stopped at the stairs, turned to face him, and smiled.
“You truly disappoint me, Johann.”
His face twisted. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Enough!” Kate said, stepping between us with fake concern. “Let’s not fight. Please.”
They were all defending her. Always her. I didn’t speak again. I climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last.
When I opened the door to my room, I nearly screamed.
Leon was there. Sitting on the floor. His little hands smeared in red and blue and green.
My paintings.
The ones I’d been working on in secret. I stopped painting when I married Johann, but lately, I decided to continue to earn my own money, so I could buy what I want. This is a piece I planned to sell to a client who finally saw value in me.
But everything is ruined now.
“Leon!” I shouted. “What the hell are you doing?!”
He looked up, eyes wide, hands covered in paint. “I was coloring! Like Aunt Kate told me!”
“That’s not coloring!” I cried, grabbing the ruined canvas. “This is my work! My painting!”
He started to cry, loud and shrill. “You’re mean! You’re a bad grandma!”
He threw a cup of paint at me. The lid flew off, splattering yellow down my dress, into my hair, across my face.
And something inside me cracked.
I slapped him.
