BROKEN

Maria quickly became part of the Sterling household. She woke up early every morning, prepared breakfast, organized the rooms, did the laundry, and made sure everything was ready before Victoria and Richard left for work. She never complained, even when the workload became heavy. She simply continued, moving through the mansion with quiet efficiency.

One afternoon, Victoria found Maria in the kitchen scrubbing pots that had been left overnight. "You work too hard," Victoria told her gently.

Maria looked up, surprised by the interruption. "I need the money and the job," she said simply. "I can't afford to lose it."

"You're more than a housekeeper to us, Maria." Victoria sat down at the kitchen island, watching her work. "You've been wonderful with Kiara too."

At the mention of Kiara's name, Maria smiled. "She's a good girl. Stubborn, but good."

Victoria laughed. "Don't let her hear you say that. She'll become even more stubborn than she already is."

Maria chuckled, thinking of her own daughter. "I have one too. Sometimes I think teenagers are all the same."

Victoria nodded thoughtfully. "What's her name?"

"Ivy."

The name made Victoria smile. "Ivy. That's beautiful. It sounds elegant."

Maria smiled, her eyes softening. "I chose it when she was born. I wanted something simple but pretty."

For a brief moment, something strange passed through Victoria's expression. She couldn't explain why, but hearing Maria talk about her daughter stirred something inside her. Perhaps it was the warmth in Maria's voice, or perhaps it was simply the way she said the name.

~~~~~~~~~

Back at the santos residence, Ivy knew something was wrong the moment she stepped through the front door. The house was unusually quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy and suffocating.

Her mother was still at work at the Sterling mansion, which meant there was nobody around to calm her father whenever his temper got out of control.

Ivy quietly removed her worn shoes and placed them beside the door, moving with practiced stealth. She hoped she could make it to her room without being noticed, without provoking another explosion.

"You're back."

She froze. Her father was sitting in the living room, his silhouette barely visible in the dim light. A half-empty bottle sat on the table beside him.

"Yes, Dad." Her voice was small, careful.

His eyes narrowed, sharp and accusing. "Where have you been?"

"School." She kept her gaze lowered, her fingers trembling at her sides.

"I asked you where you've been." His tone rose, dripping with suspicion.

Ivy swallowed hard, her throat dry. "I stayed behind for extra lessons. The teacher offered to help students who were struggling with the material."

His expression immediately darkened, his jaw tightening. "You think I'm stupid? You think I don't know when you're lying to me?"

"No." She shook her head quickly. "I'm not lying. I swear."

"Then why didn't you come straight home? Why do you always have to make things difficult?"

"I did come straight home. I just stayed behind for the extra lesson. That's all."

"Don't lie to me!" He slammed his fist against the arm of the chair.

"I'm not lying." The words escaped before she could stop them, desperate and pleading.

The moment the words left her mouth, Ivy regretted them. She saw the flash of anger in his eyes, the familiar tightening of his features that preceded the worst of his outbursts.

Her father stood and walked toward her, each step deliberate and menacing. "You've become very disrespectful lately. You think you're better than me? You think you can talk back?"

"I wasn't trying to be disrespectful. I was just…."

"Then what were you trying to be?" He loomed over her, his breath sour with alcohol.

Ivy lowered her eyes, her shoulders sagging in defeat. "I'm sorry."

He scoffed bitterly. "You're always sorry. Always apologizing, but you never change."

She said nothing. She had learned that arguing with him only made things worse, that silence was the only way to survive these moments.

But today, her silence seemed to anger him even more. He accused her of being useless, of being the reason for all the problems in the house, of draining their money and their energy. He blamed her for his gambling losses, for his failed jobs, for everything that had gone wrong in his life. Ivy tried to explain that she had done nothing wrong, that she had only been at school, but he refused to listen.

Then he struck her.

His open palm connected with her cheek, the force of the blow sending her stumbling backward. She caught herself against the wall, her hand flying to her stinging face.

"Dad..." she whispered, her voice cracking.

"Don't call me that." His voice was cold, devoid of any fatherly affection.

Her eyes filled with tears, but she refused to let them fall. "I didn't do anything. I just went to school. That's all."

He continued shouting at her, his anger spilling over in a torrent of cruel words. Ivy backed away, raising her arms to protect herself as he advanced. She didn't understand what she had done to deserve this. She had just gone to school, studied hard and had stayed behind for an extra lesson to improve her grades, that was all. Yet somehow, she was always the one he blamed, the one he hated, the one he seemed to despise with every fiber of his being.

Eventually, he turned away and walked back toward the living room, muttering curses under his breath. Ivy remained frozen for a long moment, her body trembling. Then she hurried into her bedroom and locked the door behind her. She sat on the edge of her worn bed and finally let the tears fall.

She didn't want to cry, she hated crying. But she was tired. Tired of being afraid of her own father, tired of walking on eggshells in her own home, tired of pretending everything was fine when it clearly wasn't. She was tired of lying whenever her mother or someone at school asked about the bruises she couldn't explain, tired of making up excuses for why she flinched at sudden movements.

Most of all, she was tired of wondering why the man who was supposed to protect her seemed to hate her with such intensity. She had spent years searching for answers, years trying to earn his approval, years believing that if she just tried harder, did better, became perfect, he might finally love her. But nothing had ever worked.

She opened her schoolbag and pulled out her examination paper. At the top was a note from her teacher, written in neat blue ink, “Excellent work, keep going. I'm proud of you.”

Ivy stared at the words for several seconds. A small smile appeared on her face despite the tears still streaming down her cheeks. At school, she felt different. She felt intelligent, like she could become something, like she had a future beyond this cramped house and this miserable existence. School was her escape, her lifeline and her only hope.