I jumped down from the truck before Barron could even think of offering me a hand. I landed on a driveway made of pristine, interlocking stones, the crunch under my flats sounding unnaturally loud in the evening quiet. My meager belongings—a single suitcase and a backpack—were pulled from the truck bed by Richard himself, who approached me with a hesitant, practiced smile. I ignored him, my eyes fixed on the house.
It was an architectural marvel of wealth and sterility. A fortress of glass and steel that screamed ‘new money.’ Manicured rose bushes, unnaturally perfect, lined a walkway that led to a front door that was at least ten feet tall. This wasn't a home. It was a statement. A declaration of the life my mother had chosen over ours.
“Tala, welcome.” Her voice was watery, fragile. She stood in the doorway, wringing her hands. “We’re so glad you’re here.”
I swept past her without a word, stepping onto a gleaming marble floor. The inside was cavernous, with a ceiling that soared two stories high. A massive, modern chandelier that looked like a collection of icicles hung in the center. Everything was white, gray, and beige. It was like stepping into a high-end furniture showroom, devoid of any warmth or personality. Devoid of life.
“Your room is upstairs. We… I decorated it for you. I hope you like it,” my mother offered, trailing behind me like a nervous ghost.
I ascended a floating staircase with a glass banister, my hand refusing to touch the cold, sterile surface. Barron followed with my suitcase, his head bowed. At the top of the stairs, my mother pointed to a white door at the end of the hall.
“This is you.”
I pushed the door open and stopped dead. The walls were painted a soft, pale green. The furniture was a sleek, modern white. A walk-in closet stood open, and a queen-sized bed was dressed in a duvet of a darker, forest green. She remembered my favorite color. The thought didn't warm me; it enraged me. It was a calculated gesture, a manipulative attempt to buy my affection with paint and fabric.
My eyes scanned the room, looking for the flaw, the thing I could latch my anger onto. And then I saw it. On the pristine white nightstand sat a silver picture frame. It wasn't a picture of me and Dad. It was a photo from years ago, of a younger me and Barron, smiling on either side of our mother. A relic from a life she had torched with her own two hands, now resurrected and placed in this sterile cage as if nothing had happened.
It was a violation.
“I thought it would make it feel more like home,” she whispered from the doorway.
I walked over to the nightstand, my movements slow and deliberate. I picked up the frame, my fingers cold against the silver. I didn't look at her. I looked at the smiling face of the girl in the picture, a girl who didn’t know the woman beside her was a liar. Then, I turned and walked to the empty trash can beside the desk and dropped the frame into it. The clatter of glass and silver against plastic was the only sound in the room.
Her sharp intake of breath was my reward.
“I’ll unpack myself,” I said, my voice flat and cold. I turned, walked to the door, and shut it firmly in her stunned face. The click of the lock sliding into place was the first satisfying feeling I’d had all day. I was in my cage, yes. But I was the one holding the key.