Chapter 1: The Room That Wasn't Hers Anymore
“That's my mother's room!””
My voice cracked as I watched my stepmother drag a mattress down the hallway, scraping its metal frame against the hardwood floor.
Vanella didn't even turn around.
“Not anymore!””
Behind her, my stepsister, Brielle, stood in the doorway wearing a pink sweatshirt, holding a cup of iced coffee like she was watching someone else's television show.
I was eleven years old. My mother had been dead for eight months. And that November afternoon, I discovered that my stepmother had decided there was no longer any room in our house for the woman who had given birth to me.
My name is Amara Brooks.
And before that day, I still believed my father would never let anyone treat me like I didn't belong.
I was wrong.
The hallway smelled of furniture polish and the cinnamon candle Vanella burned every morning. Outside, November wind pushed against the windows, rattling the old wooden frames of our house in suburban Maryland.
I stood barefoot on the cold hardwood, wearing my purple sweatshirt and gray leggings.
My mother's bedroom door was wide open.
The room looked like someone had broken into a museum and started stealing everything that mattered.
Her cream-colored curtains were gone.
The framed photographs on her dresser had been turned facedown.
Her favorite blue silk robe, the one she wore on Sunday mornings while making pancakes, was hanging over the arm of Brielle's shoulder.
I stared at it.
"Why are you taking that?"" I asked.
Brielle looked down at the robe, then at herself in the full-length mirror.
"Mom said I could have it.""
"That belonged to my mom.""
She adjusted the belt around her waist.
"Well, she's not using it.""
Something inside me tightened.
I looked at Vanella.
She was wearing her usual green sweater, black trousers, and gold hoop earrings. Her hair was pulled into a neat bun. She looked like the kind of woman who remembered everyone's birthday and brought homemade desserts to neighborhood gatherings.
People loved her.
My mother had once told me that some people were very good at looking kind when other people were watching.
I hadn't understood what she meant until Vanella moved into our house.
"Vanella, please," I said, stepping toward the dresser.
"Can I at least keep Mom's things together?""
She placed the mattress against the hallway wall.
"Amara, we've discussed this.""
"No, we haven't.""
Her eyebrows lifted.
"Excuse me?""
I swallowed.
"Dad said I could keep Mom's room.""
Vanella gave a small laugh.
"Your father says a lot of things when he feels guilty.""
Brielle giggled.
I looked at the dresser.
My mother's jewelry box was missing.
The little ceramic bird she had kept beside her bed was gone, too.
"Where's the jewelry box?""
Vanella folded her arms.
"Somewhere safe.""
"Where?""
"Don't start.""
I walked past her and reached for the closet.
Vanella immediately stepped in front of me.
"Don't you dare touch her.""
I froze.
For a moment, I couldn't understand the sentence.
Her?
My mother?
The woman whose photographs were still hanging downstairs?
The woman whose name was written on the mailbox alongside my father's?
"That's my mom's closet," I whispered.
"And this is my house.""
I looked at her.
It wasn't her house.
Not really.
My mother, Renee Brooks, had purchased it six years before she died. She had worked as a nurse, saving money for years to afford the down payment. My father, Marcus, had contributed to the mortgage later, but the house had always been the place my mother called hers.
After her death, Dad married Vanella.
At first, she seemed wonderful.
She bought me new school supplies, made dinner, and told everyone how much she loved having a daughter.
Then the little things started disappearing.
My mother's photographs.
Her kitchen decorations.
The yellow blanket she had knitted for me.
Every time I asked, Vanella said the same thing.
"We need to move forward.""
Now she was moving my mother's mattress into the hallway.
"Where am I supposed to sleep?"" I asked.
Vanella pointed toward the garage.
I stared at her.
"What?""
"The guest room is Brielle's now. Your father's office is being converted into my workspace. So you'll sleep in the garage.""
Brielle stepped into the room and examined the empty space.
"Mom, this is actually perfect. My bed will fit against that wall.""
Vanella smiled.
"Exactly, sweetheart.""
I looked between them.
"You can't put me in the garage.""
Vanella leaned closer.
"Watch me.""
I backed away.
"Dad won't let you.""
"Your father works late. And when he gets home, he'll be too tired to deal with your little performances.""
"He's my dad.""
"And I'm his wife.""
She said it quietly, almost pleasantly.
Then she picked up the last box from the bedroom and handed it to Brielle.
"Take this downstairs, honey.""
Brielle opened it before leaving.
Inside were several framed pictures of my mother and me.
She pulled one out.
It showed Mom holding me at the beach when I was six. Both of us were laughing, our hair blowing in the wind.
Brielle tilted her head.
"Do you really need all these pictures?""
"Give it back!""
I reached for it.
She pulled it away.
Vanella caught my wrist.
"Enough.""
Her fingernails pressed into my skin.
I stopped moving.
"You're going to learn something, Amara," she said.
"This family has changed. You need to accept that.""
She released me.
Then she pointed down the hallway.
"Get your things.""
I didn't move.
She narrowed her eyes.
"Now.""
My bedroom was the smallest room in the house.
I packed two pairs of pajamas, three shirts, my toothbrush, and the photograph Brielle had dropped back into the box.
I didn't take much.
I couldn't.
The rest of my things were either in the laundry or locked in the closet Vanella had decided to reorganize.
When I returned downstairs, Brielle was standing in my mother's bedroom doorway.
She had changed into a pink skirt and was taking pictures of herself in the mirror.
"Mom, look at this.""
Vanella appeared beside her.
"Beautiful.""
"Can I keep the robe?""
Vanella looked toward me.
"Of course.""
I held the photograph tighter.
"Please don't give her that.""
Vanella's smile disappeared.
"Amara, you're making this very difficult.""
"She has her own clothes.""
"She's allowed to have nice things.""
"That's my mother's.""
Vanella walked toward me.
"Do you know what your problem is?""
I shook my head.
"You think everything that belonged to your mother belongs to you.""
"Because she was my mother.""
For the first time, Vanella's expression changed.
Not anger.
Something colder.
"That woman is gone," she said.
"And you're going to stop using her to get your way.""
I felt tears gathering, but I refused to let them fall.
Vanella pointed toward the garage door.
"Take your things.""
I walked past her.
At the doorway, I turned around one last time.
My mother's bedroom was already beginning to look different.
Brielle was measuring the wall with her hands.
Vanella was discussing paint colors.
Neither of them noticed that I had stopped looking at the room.
I was looking at the small wooden cabinet beside the bed.
The cabinet where my mother used to keep her sewing supplies.
Its bottom drawer was slightly open.
Something inside caught the light.
A tiny silver corner.
I stared at it for two seconds.
Then I looked away.
I would come back for it.
I just needed to make sure Vanella didn't notice.
The garage smelled of cardboard, motor oil, and cold concrete.
Vanella had placed an old mattress against the far wall.
There was no proper heating.
A narrow window sat above the workbench, and a stack of Christmas decorations occupied one corner.
I set my bag down.
"Please," I said.
"It's November.""
Vanella held out her hand.
"Your phone.""
I frowned.
"Why?""
"Because I don't want you calling people and telling stories.""
"I wasn't going to.""
"Phone. Now.""
I hesitated.
She stepped forward and took it from my hand.
"Don't make me ask twice.""
I watched her walk toward the door.
"Where are you going?""
"Inside.""
"Can you leave the light on?""
She didn't answer.
The garage door began to close.
I rushed toward it.
"Vanella!""
The door struck the concrete with a heavy metallic sound.
Then came the click of the lock.
I stood in the silence.
My mother's photograph was pressed against my chest.
And for the first time since she died, I felt completely alone.
But I remembered something she had told me.
When someone takes away your voice, sweetheart, pay attention to what they're afraid you'll say.
I looked toward the workbench.
Then toward the old wooden cabinet I had noticed earlier.
May you like
I hadn't forgotten what I saw.
And neither had my mother.
