Chapter 6

They all gathered around Celia as if protecting some priceless treasure.

She cradled her hand—barely scratched—as though it had been severed at the wrist.

Her performance was flawless: shimmering tears, trembling lips, gently quivering shoulders. Every gesture calculated, every expression designed to elicit the deepest sympathy and protectiveness.

"Couldn't you stop her?" Tad snapped at me, eyes blazing. "Her wound hasn't even healed yet! How could you let her touch dangerous things in the kitchen?"

"I clearly told her not to," I replied quietly but firmly. "She insisted on coming in. How is that my fault?"

Leo's gaze was like a poisoned ice shard, sharp enough to pierce straight through me. "You could've been firmer. You know her body's weak—she can't handle any stress. You're supposed to be the responsible one here, Nancy."

And what about you? I wanted to scream. I barely survived that car crash too. Do my injuries mean nothing?

But no one heard. Or rather—they chose not to.

"From now on, you'll handle all the meals alone," Tad ordered sharply. "Celia isn't fit to do housework in her condition. Try to be more understanding! Weren't you two once like sisters? We're a family, Nancy."

Family.

The word twisted in my gut, bitter and mocking.

I opened my mouth to speak—but the words withered in my throat.

Forget it. They never really listened anyway.

"She shouldn't have to ask," Leo cut in, his tone icy. "You should know to take care of her. You're out of the hospital now, right? Then prove it. Prepare dinner. We'd like a proper meal."

They helped the softly sobbing Celia out of the kitchen. Tad held her as though she were a fragile crystal doll, while Leo barked at someone to fetch a first-aid kit and ice packs.

Once again, I was left behind—surrounded by cold utensils and the wreckage of a ruined dinner.

I stood beside the dead stove. The soup in the pot had long gone cold.

Almost mechanically, I turned the flame back on, added a pinch of sea salt, cracked a fresh egg. My hands moved on autopilot—stir, scoop, pour.

But this time, the soup wasn't for them.

Why should it be?

They hadn't even considered me when planning their Finland trip.

They didn't deserve another ounce of my care.

This—this was for me.

Just me.

I sat alone at the empty table and began to eat.

The broth was warm, mild, comforting in its simplicity. It couldn't mend the gaping wounds inside me, but at least this small warmth was mine—and mine alone.

Halfway through, familiar footsteps echoed into the kitchen—

Tad and Leo had returned.

"There you are," Tad frowned, glancing at the table. "Where's our dinner?"

Leo looked irritated, scanning the bare countertops. "Wasn't it supposed to be ready by now? What have you been doing?"

I didn't look up. "Didn't make any. This bowl's mine."

Tad blinked, as if he hadn't heard correctly. "You only made food for yourself? I told you to prepare for three—including Celia. Where's the rest?"

"I'm not your private chef," I said evenly, spooning another mouthful of soup. "And I never agreed to be responsible for your meals."

A tense silence followed—then Leo let out a derisive laugh.

"This is about Celia again, isn't it?" His voice dripped with contempt. "God, Nancy, when will you stop being so jealous?"

I didn't answer. I just kept eating.

"She's sick. She's hurt," Tad added, his tone laced with blame. "Why must you be so cruel? Should we abandon an injured woman just to make you feel seen?"

I ate in silence—

one spoonful after another.

The air thickened, pressing in, suffocating.

"You're the most selfish person I've ever met," Leo growled through clenched teeth. "You only ever think about yourself, don't you? Do you honestly believe this world—this family—owes you something just because you were here before Celia?"

My hand trembled slightly around the spoon.

Not from fear—

but from sheer, bone-deep exhaustion.

"She didn't mean to get hurt," Tad continued his sermon. "Since she came back, she's been trying to reconnect, to make peace. And you? You just sulk and wallow in self-pity. Admit it, Nancy—you're jealous of her."

Jealous.

That magic word again.

Their favorite weapon—used to silence, to deny, to erase me.

I slowly set my spoon down. The soft clink of metal on porcelain sliced through the heavy air.

"I'm not jealous," I said quietly, voice hollow yet steady. "I'm just… done."

But they didn't hear me.

Or maybe they did—and simply didn't care.

Suddenly, Leo slammed his palm against the table, hard enough to rattle the cutlery. I flinched involuntarily.

"You know what?" he roared, his face twisted with rage. "You're not even worth a single strand of her hair!"

Then—

he seized my bowl and hurled it at the wall.

Porcelain shattered. Soup and egg splattered down like blood on the cold white surface.

I stared blankly at the wreckage.

Tad didn't stop him.

Neither of them did.

"Pathetic," Leo hissed, shaking his head, eyes full of disgust. "You're nothing but a failure."

The words hung in the air—thick, rancid, suffocating.

Then they left. Their footsteps faded down the corridor, sharp and final.

I stood alone, staring at the shattered pieces on the floor—

the remnants of something I'd made with care, now discarded like trash.

And strangely—

this time, I didn't cry.

Not a single tear.