Chapter 3

"Brooke, why are you yelling at a little girl?"

Madison came over, too, pulling Harper into her arms. Her tone was casual and dismissive. "Come on, Brooke. It's just a photograph. Do you really have to make such a big deal out of it?"

I stared at the family portrait in my hands. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't wipe the marks off. My hands trembled with anger. "Just a photograph?"

Madison rolled her eyes. "Yeah. It's just a photograph, isn't it?"

I stood up, clutching the picture. My voice trembled uncontrollably. "But my dad is already gone. This is the last family portrait we have."

The room fell silent for a moment.

But only for a moment.

Ethan walked over from behind them. He glanced at Harper, who was still wailing, then at the photograph in my hands, and sighed.

"All right, all right. So what? What’s the point of getting so worked up? Harper didn't do it on purpose.

"Besides, when you live together as a family, people are bound to bump into each other and make mistakes. Are you happy now that you've turned everything into a chaotic mess?"

Family?

In their eyes, they were the only ones who truly counted as family. My mother was an outsider, and so was I.

I opened my mouth to speak, but just then, my phone vibrated. It was a message from my mother.

"Brooke, I'm already on the bus back home. Take good care of yourself, and don't argue with Ethan because of me."

I stared at the screen, my eyes burning.

In an instant, I no longer had the strength to argue with them.

All I wanted now was to go home. All I wanted was to see my mother. I wanted to spend the holiday with her.

Patricia was still going on and on. "Look at you! It's just a photograph. Do you really have to cry over it? You're so dramatic!"

Ethan chimed in, "All right, Mom. Stop it."

"Why should I stop? Ever since her mother came, there's been nothing but trouble in this house..."

I didn't say another word. I carefully put the photograph away, turned, and walked out, heading for the long-distance bus station.

Most of the lights in the waiting hall had been dimmed. The last bus had left long ago.

My mother should have arrived home by now, shouldn't she?

It looked like I wouldn't be able to spend Thanksgiving with her after all.

I sighed.

Then I caught sight of a familiar figure in the corner. It was my mother.

She was sitting against the wall, a woven plastic sack beside her feet and the faded jacket she had washed so many times clutched in her arms.

She was asleep. A bus ticket was still in her hand.

I bent down to look at it.

A bus to the neighboring county, departing at 6:20 tomorrow morning.

A regular seat. $43.

In an instant, I thought I understood. The last bus tonight had cost $123. To save those $80, she'd decided to curl up at the station for the entire night.

I crouched beside her, my throat feeling as though it were stuffed with broken glass.

"Mom..." I called to her softly.

My mother jolted awake. When she saw me, she froze in surprise. "Brooke? What are you doing here?"

"Didn't you say you were already on the bus?" I asked, fighting back a sob.

Her smile faltered for a moment. Then she lowered her head and spoke quietly, "I... I wanted to save a little money. The bus at night costs more. The early-morning one is cheaper. I can make do at the station for one night and save $80. Isn't that great?"

$80?

When she'd bought me a house, she'd handed over $800,000 without batting an eye.

I crouched there, looking at her.

There was dirt on her face. The wind had messed up her hair, and the hem of her clothes was stained with mud from the flower bed.

"Mom, why didn't you... why didn't you tell me?"

My mother sighed and reached up to wipe my face. Her hands were rough, and the calluses on her fingertips scraped against the corner of my eye, stinging a little.