Chapter 2 - The Silent HouseI drove to my parents' house at 9:00 AM, holding the box safely in the passenger seat. The neighborhood was quiet, the manicured lawns gleaming under the morning dew. For the first time in my life, I didn’t pull into the driveway with a sense of dread or obligation. I pulled in with a weapon.
The front door was unlocked—a habit my mother had never broken.
Inside, the house smelled of stale coffee and bleach. My father sat in his leather armchair in the living room, staring blankly at a television that wasn’t turned on. His posture was slumped, his gray hair uncombed.
“Dad?” I stepped into the room.
His head snapped up, his cloudy eyes brightening with a flicker of recognition. “Lucy... where were you? Your mother has been screaming since six o’clock. She can’t find her phone, she can’t find my pills, and Chelsea is still asleep upstairs.”
Before I could answer, heavy footsteps pounded down the staircase.
My mother marched into the room, her face flushed with rage, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looked like a general whose army had deserted her.
“Where have you been?!” she shrieked, marching right up to me. “Your father’s blood pressure monitor is missing from the counter, and I’ve had a migraine since midnight because of your childish little text message! Go into the kitchen right now and fix his breakfast before I lose my mind.”
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t step back. I looked straight into her eyes, seeing the raw panic hidden beneath her ferocious exterior.
“I didn’t bring the medication, Mom,” I said calmly. “And I’m not making breakfast.”
She stopped dead in her tracks. Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me? After what you pulled yesterday—abandoning us, refusing to answer calls—you walk into my house and talk back? Chelsea! Chelsea, get down here right now and deal with your sister!”
Chelsea appeared at the top of the stairs in silk pajamas, rubbing her eyes with a bored expression. “Mom, what is going on? Can’t a person sleep? Carter has soccer camp at ten.”
“Your sister has lost her mind,” my mother hissed, pointing a trembling finger at me. “She thinks she can punish us. She thinks she can cut us off.”
May you like
I reached into my handbag, pulled out the thick stack of documents from Aunt Colleen’s box, and dropped them onto the coffee table right in front of my father.
“I’m not cutting you off, Mom,” I smiled coldly. “I’m auditing you.”
