The first time Eden hurt me, I thought it was an accident.
I was pouring coffee at breakfast, my hands steady despite the sleepless night I'd spent in the guest room. The morning light filtered through our kitchen windows, catching the steam rising from the pot.
"Jordan," Harrison said without looking up from his newspaper, "make sure Eden gets the milk first. It helps with her medication."
I nodded, reaching for the creamer. As I turned, Eden stretched across the table, her small hands grasping for the sugar bowl.
"I want sugar!" she exclaimed in that high-pitched voice she used whenever Harrison was nearby.
Her arm knocked against mine—or so it appeared. The coffee pot tilted, then toppled, sending a wave of scalding liquid across my hand and wrist.
I gasped, jerking back as the pain seared through my skin. The pot clattered to the floor, coffee splashing across the marble tiles.
"Oh! Oh no!" Eden's eyes widened, her lower lip trembling. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to!"
She burst into tears, her shoulders shaking as she curled into herself.
Harrison was beside her instantly, his arm around her shoulders. "It's okay, sweetheart. It was just an accident."
He didn't look at me once as he comforted her. My hand throbbed, angry red blisters already forming on my skin.
"I'll get a towel," I said quietly, backing away.
---
A week later, I was alone in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for dinner. The knife felt heavy in my hand, my injured skin still tender.
"Jordan?" Eden's voice startled me. She stood in the doorway, watching me with those too-knowing eyes.
"What do you need, Eden?" I asked, setting the knife down.
She approached slowly, her gaze fixed on the paring knife I'd been using.
"What does this do?" she asked, picking it up with curious fingers.
"Eden, be careful with that," I warned, reaching for it.
But she pulled away, examining the blade as if she'd never seen one before.
"It's shiny," she said, her voice a child's voice, but her eyes—her eyes were calculating.
Before I could react, she lunged forward. The knife sliced across my chin, a thin line of pain blooming into warm wetness.
I stumbled back, pressing my hand to my face. Blood seeped between my fingers, staining my white blouse crimson.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Eden wailed, dropping the knife with a clatter. "It was an accident!"
Harrison appeared in the doorway, his expression alarmed. "What happened?"
"She cut herself!" Eden sobbed, running to him. "I didn't mean to! The knife was too sharp!"
Harrison wrapped his arms around her, murmuring reassurances into her hair. "It's not your fault, sweetheart. You didn't know."
He never asked if I needed medical attention.
---
At dinner that night, I sat across from Eden, a bandage on my chin and another on my forehead where the knife had glanced off. The crystal chandelier cast harsh shadows across the table.
"Can I play with this?" Eden asked, holding up a heavy crystal paperweight from the sideboard.
"Eden, no—" Harrison began, but she'd already tossed it across the table.
It struck me directly above my left eye with surprising force. Pain exploded behind my vision as blood trickled down my face.
"It slipped!" she cried, her hands over her mouth in exaggerated horror. "My hands are so small and weak!"
Harrison rushed to her side as I pressed a napkin to my bleeding forehead.
"Call Dr. Morrison," he instructed Catherine, who stood frozen by the door. "Eden's upset. She needs something to calm her."
"Sir," Catherine hesitated, glancing at me, "perhaps Mrs. Hamilton needs medical attention first?"
"She's fine," Harrison snapped. "Just a small cut."
I excused myself to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. In the mirror, blood streaked down my face like a crimson tear. The wound would heal, but the scar would remain—a permanent reminder of my powerlessness.
---
The call came at 3:47 PM.
"Jordan," Dr. Patel's voice was grave over the phone. "Your grandfather has suffered a massive stroke. You should come right away."
I drove to the hospital with trembling hands, my mind racing. Grandfather was all I had left—my only family before Harrison.
In the ICU, he lay still, tubes and wires connecting him to machines that beeped too slowly.
"Grandpa," I whispered, taking his hand. "I'm here."
His eyes fluttered open briefly, recognizing me.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Harrison's number.
"Please," I begged when his voicemail picked up. "Grandpa's dying. I need to stay with him as long as necessary. Please call me back."
At 4:15 PM, I called again. "The doctors say he might not make it through the night. Harrison, please. He's my only family."
No response.
By 8 PM, I'd called seventeen times. The nurses gave me pitying looks as I paced the hallway, phone pressed to my ear.
"Thirty-seven times," a young nurse said softly as she checked my grandfather's vitals. "You've called him thirty-seven times."
At 11:52 PM, my grandfather squeezed my hand one final time.
"You deserved better than this life, little one," he whispered, his last words to me.
I sat beside his cooling body, my phone silent in my lap. Something broke inside me then—something fundamental that had nothing to do with my heart condition and everything to do with the woman I was becoming.
Outside the hospital window, the city lights blurred through my tears as I realized I was truly alone now.
