Fake Home

The motion-sensor light in the hallway went dark, worn out by my silence.

I turned and made my way downstairs, my numb legs dragging with every step. I found a budget hotel nearby and checked in.

That night, I slept like a log.

The next day after work, I called a rental agent and found a studio apartment close to my office.

I paid the deposit, then went back to the house with its brand-new fingerprint lock.

I stood outside the door and rang the bell.

From inside came the sound of laughter from a variety show. A while later, footsteps shuffled slowly toward the door.

The door opened, and Cassandra Mapes poked her head out. The smile on her face faded the instant she saw me.

"You're just getting back? We already finished dinner," she said, blocking the doorway without any intention of stepping aside.

"I'm just here to grab a few things," I said.

I slipped past her into the entryway and bent down to change my shoes.

But the shoe rack was nearly empty, save for a row of brand-new designer sneakers. My slippers were gone.

"Where did you run off to last night? Didn't even say a word. Your temper just keeps getting worse," my mother said, coming out of the kitchen with a plate of sliced fruit and glancing at me.

"Your old slippers were worn through anyway, so I tossed them when we moved. You can go in barefoot."

I didn't answer. I just padded across the floor in my socks, heading straight for the end of the hallway.

When I pushed open the door to the second bedroom, I froze.

My single bed was gone, and so was my old desk. In their place stood a wall of custom-built closets, packed with Cassandra's dresses and designer bags.

An unfamiliar perfume had replaced the smell of old books.

Cassandra trailed after me, not even trying to hide the satisfaction in her voice. "Mom said I had too many clothes and the old closet couldn't fit them all. This room gets the best light, so it's perfect for a walk-in closet."

I turned to look at the person eating an apple on the couch. "Where are my things?"

My mother didn't even glance up from the television. "They're on the balcony. That junk should've been thrown out ages ago," she said flatly.

"You're always working late anyway. Nobody even sees you around here. Just lay something down in the living room tonight and make do."

She said it so matter-of-factly, as if the fact that I no longer had a bed to sleep in in this new house was nothing worth mentioning.

I went out to the balcony, crouched down, and opened the top box.

My clothes had been balled up and crammed inside without care. My photo albums and diary were buried at the bottom, their covers torn.

Cassandra walked over and kicked the box. "Sort this stuff out already. I want to put a vanity out here tomorrow."

This time, I didn't argue about who'd been there first, the way I used to. I didn't even ask where I was supposed to sleep.

I pulled a few changes of clothes out of the box and stuffed them into my bag. "Got it," I said.

My mother scoffed from the living room. "Walking around with a face like she's owed a million dollars."

I stood up and ignored the jab behind me.

Just a little longer, I told myself.

Six more days until my new apartment was ready.