Chapter 3

“We aren’t going to have this discussion.”

I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that. The words seemed to come out of nowhere, and for a moment, even I was taken by surprise. Lyra stopped in her tracks, a mixture of pain or perhaps just quietness on her face rather than the defiance she had shown before.

“Lyra,” I added, doing my best to make my voice less harsh while trying to hold back all the emotion behind those two words. “Get your shoes. They are in the lower closet.”

I motioned to the closet, not sure what to say to further complicate the situation.

There was no response from her other than turning away from me and walking right past me as if trying to make me feel her disappointment.

A deep sigh escaped my mouth. I hadn’t even realized that I had been holding my breath.

It had been six years since everything had fallen to pieces.

Six years since Dad died and Julia my supposedly loving mother left us because we weren’t good enough for her anymore.

Up to the present day, whenever I thought about her, my heart felt like it was tightening up in pain. Even her name could not be mentioned without a burning rage rising in me. It seemed like less than six months had passed since she became a widow when she decided to leave us for another man’s arms.

I thought she had loved my father. Truly believed it.

They had their disagreements; how could anyone deny that? They shouted at one another, but then there were those times when he would look at her as if she was the sun revolving around the moon. He would take care of her, provide for her, fulfill all her wishes even if it strained him a little.

But not Julia. Oh no, she was all about parties and the spotlight. She needed to be adored, worshipped, loved in ways she knew she could get away with, even if it meant leaving us in the dark.

Not Lyra.

Lyra had never been a priority.

I remember when she had just learned to walk, her tiny feet shuffling forward in search of something to hold onto.

But she hadn’t found Julia.

No, it had been Aunt Celeste who had stood by her side, held her close, and done what Julia had refused to do.

But with the death of my father…

The balance tipped.

There was no gradual shift into responsibility, no slow buildup, and no transition period where I could grow into it.

It just fell on me with full force.

I had to learn quickly. How to make a dollar last longer than it was supposed to. How to cook with scraps. How to give up everything I ever thought I wanted just to see that Lyra got her needs met.

Fees were not an option, anymore. Not for her but for me.

I gave up without uttering it, since somebody needed to pick her and it was going to be me always.

“Aubrey?”

I snapped to my senses due to Lyra’s voice.

I blinked to realize that I have been standing longer than I should be.

Here she was in front of me, trying to cram the pair of shoes into her suitcase. It is apparent that it did not seem like they were willing to fit inside her bag.

They won't fit in, she murmured, as frustration seeped through her voice as she continued trying.

My sigh escaped softly. “Let me do that.”

I stepped closer to her while she got out of the way.

I leaned in a bit and made some changes in her suitcase. I squished down on her clothes, arranging everything until there was some empty space inside. Then, I jammed in those troublesome shoes forcefully into her bag before zipping it up.

“There you go,” I stretched my arms out.

*****

Dinner was silent.

We ate stew fish with rice. Usually, Lyra would have made some comment about the flavor, pointed out some tiny thing that bothered her, or needled me about how I cooked.

Not tonight… she just ate.

I let out a sigh, putting my spoon down.

“I’m sorry,” I said, raising my hands up and cupping my ears for emphasis. I tried my best to give her puppy dog eyes. Don’t be mad, please.

Lyra didn’t even bother to acknowledge me at all.

“No,” she muttered, turning away from me and crossing her arms. 

“I’m really, really sorry, Lyra.”

You yelled at me, she insisted, tone flat, as though she had already concluded that her point of view was correct.

I was about to retort but decided against it.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, this time more gently.

She didn’t say anything.

No, Lyra slowly uncrossed her arms and took up her spoon again.

I won’t accept your apology.

I gaped at her. “What?”

you heard me right, she said, dead serious. I will forgive you only after you call me once you reach your workplace.”

I looked at her blankly for a moment.

But then, somehow, a smile began to form on my face.

“Alright, ma’am,” I replied with a grin. It shall be done according to your wishes.

That elicited the slightest response, a slight change of her expression, almost as if she were trying to suppress a smile.

That was all it took for the tension to subside.

We kept on eating, the conversation resuming bit by bit.

Then, just then, my phone vibrated.

I grabbed it and took a look.

An email from the agency with the address of where I'd be working.