1: A HOUSE IS NOT A HOME

Chapter 1: A House That Isn’t Home

I learned early that this house only tolerated me when I was useful.

The floorboards outside my room creaked in a way that told me who was awake. Heavy steps meant my uncle. Sharp, impatient ones meant my aunt. Light, deliberate steps—almost mocking—belonged to my cousin. I lay still on my thin mattress, counting the cracks on the ceiling, waiting for the sounds to pass.

Mornings were the safest. Everyone was too busy being tired to notice me.

I slipped out of my room quietly, barefoot, careful not to step on the loose nail near the hallway wall. The kitchen smelled like old oil and last night’s alcohol. My uncle’s empty bottle lay on the table, tipped on its side like it had given up trying to stand.

I washed the dishes he’d left behind. Again.

The water was cold, numbing my fingers, but I preferred that to being seen doing nothing. In this house, rest was a crime I couldn’t afford.

“Still alive?”

My aunt’s voice came from behind me. Flat. Disappointed.

“Yes, Aunt,” I said, keeping my eyes on the sink.

She clicked her tongue. “Must be nice. Eating food you didn’t earn.”

I didn’t answer. Silence was safer. Silence didn’t escalate.

She moved past me, her shoulder brushing mine on purpose. I stumbled slightly, steadying myself on the counter. She didn’t apologize. She never did.

I finished the dishes and wiped the counter twice, even though it was already clean. Clean meant invisible. Invisible meant survival.

My cousin appeared in the doorway, already dressed, hair perfectly done. She looked like the kind of girl people noticed without trying. The kind people chose.

She looked at me like I was a stain.

“Did you wear that again?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “God, you’re embarrassing.”

I glanced down at my dress. It was old. Faded. The hem had been sewn and resewn so many times the stitches showed like scars. But it was clean. I always made sure it was clean.

“I don’t have anything else,” I said quietly.

She laughed. “That’s not my problem.”

She stepped closer, her eyes scanning my face with something sharp and bitter. I hated that look more than the insults. It was the look that said she noticed. That she compared.

“You know what’s unfair?” she continued, lowering her voice. “Even wearing trash, you still look like that.”

I didn’t ask what that meant. I already knew.

She reached out suddenly and shoved me back against the table. Not hard enough to bruise. Just enough to remind me of my place.

“Don’t think you’re special,” she said. “You’re just charity.”

When she left, the house felt colder.

I finished my chores and retreated to my room, the smallest one in the house. It used to be a storage space. The window barely opened, and when it rained, the corner of the ceiling leaked. I placed a bowl underneath it out of habit.

I sat on my bed and hugged my knees to my chest.

Sometimes I tried to remember my parents’ faces. The effort hurt. Memory was cruel like that—it faded what you wanted to keep and sharpened what you wished you could forget.

I wasn’t family here. I was proof of obligation. A reminder of someone else’s mistake.

By noon, my uncle came home.

I smelled him before I heard him—alcohol and sweat and something sour. The front door slammed so hard the walls shook.

“Where is she?” he shouted.

My stomach dropped.

I stood before he reached my room. It was better that way.

“I’m here,” I said.

He looked at me like he was annoyed I still existed. His eyes were bloodshot, unfocused, but sharp enough to cut.

“Did you eat?” he asked.

“No,” I answered truthfully.

“Good,” he said. “At least you’re learning.”

He pushed past me, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and pouring whatever was left in the bottle. He drank it like water.

“You know,” he muttered, “you’re expensive.”

I said nothing.

“Another mouth to feed,” he continued. “Another useless thing taking up space.”

I stared at the floor, my fingers digging into my palms.

“You should be grateful,” he said. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be dead.”

I wondered, not for the first time, if that would have been worse.

Later, when the house quieted again, I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I traced the cracks like constellations, pretending they meant something. Pretending there was a pattern. A reason.

This wasn’t a home. Homes were warm. Homes wanted you.

This was just a place where I existed until someone decided I was worth something else.

And I had a terrible feeling that day was coming soon.