Chapter 3 — Home, Not So Sweet Home
Layla
The scent of lavender cleaning spray hit me the second I walked through the door, its cloying sweetness wrapping around me like a passive-aggressive hug. Donna's weapon of choice: cleanliness as control. I kicked off my sneakers by the door, one of them landing sideways—a small, silent rebellion against the curated perfection of her suburban kingdom. Somewhere upstairs, the faint hum of a vacuum droned on. Perfect. Donna was clearly in one of her “nesting” moods again, which probably meant more casualties for the “Layla’s House: Before Donna” exhibit.
I scanned the walls as I made my way to the living room, my gaze automatically searching for cracks in the façade. Every day, it felt like another piece of Mom had been quietly erased. Sure enough, the watercolor painting she’d hung years ago—an abstract mess of blues and greens she swore would “calm the soul”—was gone. In its place hung a bland, generic sunset print, the kind you’d find in the clearance rack of a home goods store. My pulse quickened as the familiar frustration bubbled up. Mom’s touches were disappearing, one by one, and no one seemed to notice. Or care.
“Layla!” Donna’s voice floated down the stairs, chipper and polished, as though she hadn’t just orchestrated another act of cultural cleansing. “Can you please put your shoes on the rack? You know how much your dad and I are trying to keep this place organized.”
I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. A million snarky comebacks fought for dominance—something about the shoe rack being the cornerstone of a functional family or Donna’s obsession with order being both literal and metaphorical. But I swallowed them down, forcing out a muttered, “Sure.” With a nudge of my foot, I shoved the offending sneaker into place, its rubber toe reluctantly aligning with its twin. Satisfied that I’d done my part to preserve the sacred suburban temple of order, I trudged to the kitchen in search of sugar strong enough to dull the edges of my irritation.
Ashley was perched at the island like a suburban queen bee surveying her hive, scrolling through her phone with the precision of someone conducting a digital autopsy. Her long, manicured nails tapped the screen rhythmically, the sound grating against my nerves. Her blonde hair gleamed, of course, and the oversized gold hoops swaying from her ears seemed to mock my hoodie-and-jeans ensemble.
“Hey,” she said without looking up, her tone maddeningly casual. “Donna’s freaking out about the shoe thing again. You’d think someone died or something.”
I froze mid-step, my hand hovering over the cookie jar. The comment was so off-handed I wasn’t sure if she was trying to be funny or oblivious—maybe both. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I said dryly, sarcasm automatic. “I’ll be sure to schedule my grief counseling immediately.”
Ashley glanced up then, one perfectly arched brow lifting just slightly. “What’s your problem?”
“My problem?” I echoed, popping the lid off the jar and grabbing a cookie. I took a deliberate bite, letting the sweetness melt on my tongue before answering. “Oh, you know. My house now looks like a Crate Barrel exploded, my dad’s too busy playing house to notice, and I just spent eight hours dodging the social IEDs you keep planting at school. So yeah, I’m fantastic. Thanks for asking.”
Her expression shifted from mild annoyance to something bordering on boredom. “God, you’re exhausting.”
“Right back at you,” I fired back, leaning against the counter. I wanted to drop it there, but the words kept bubbling up, unbidden. “For someone who acts like they have it all together, you sure spend a lot of time making other people miserable.”
Ashley’s phone clicked against the counter as she set it down, her gaze sharpening. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t,” I said, folding my arms. “Because cornering Sarah in the hallway today was just a friendly chat, right? And spreading rumors about me last week? Totally harmless fun. Do you even hear yourself?”
Her smirk faltered—just for a moment. It was so brief I might’ve missed it if I weren’t watching her so closely. “Sarah needs to grow a backbone,” she said finally, her voice quieter but no less cutting. “And you? You need to stop acting like you’re some kind of hero. No one asked you to swoop in and save her.”
I laughed, but it came out bitter and humorless. “Wow. You really don’t get it, do you?”
Ashley’s posture stiffened, her chin lifting slightly as if she were bracing herself for something. For a split second, I saw something flicker in her eyes—fear? Shame? Vulnerability? Something raw, something I didn’t expect. Whatever it was, it was gone before I could name it, replaced by her usual mask of defiance. I didn’t stick around to decode it. Instead, I grabbed another cookie for the road and left her there, her sharp gaze following me as I disappeared up the stairs.
---
My room was the only place in the house that still felt like mine. Even then, it was a fragile peace, constantly threatened by Donna’s suggestions to “reimagine the space” or “declutter for clarity.” I locked the door behind me and flopped onto my bed, pulling my astronaut keychain out of my hoodie pocket. The tiny figurine dangled from its chain, scuffed and worn in places but still steady.
I rolled it between my fingers, its cool metal grounding me. There was something comforting about the weight of it, the way it fit so perfectly in my palm. It reminded me of simpler times—back when it was just me and Dad and the vague, shining dream of space camp. Back before the cracks started to show.
My gaze drifted toward the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing down on me. Between Ashley’s theatrics, Donna’s lavender-scented crusades, and the gnawing sense of invisibility at home, it was hard to breathe sometimes. After a few minutes, my eyes flicked toward the attic door in the hallway.
The thought of going up there always made my chest tighten—a sharp, suffocating mix of longing and dread. Dad had shoved Mom’s things up there not long after she left, like burying them in cardboard would somehow make them easier to forget. But they were still there, waiting.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I slipped out of my room and quietly pulled the attic door open. The wooden steps creaked under my weight as I climbed, the air growing cooler and dustier with each step. The faint smell of cardboard and old books hit me as I reached the top, and I hesitated, my hand hovering over the light switch.
The attic was a mess of forgotten things—holiday decorations, old toys, random knickknacks that had somehow escaped Donna’s purging spree. In the corner, stacked neatly but untouched, were Mom’s boxes. I crouched beside them, my fingers brushing the edges of the cardboard. The top box wasn’t taped shut, and I carefully lifted the flaps, revealing a jumble of photographs, letters, and other keepsakes.
The first photo I pulled out was of me and Mom at a park I didn’t recognize. I was maybe five, my pigtails lopsided and my grin missing a front tooth. Mom was kneeling beside me, her arm around my shoulders, her smile bright and easy in a way I barely remembered. My throat tightened, and I quickly set the photo aside, reaching for something else—a small, heart-shaped locket on a delicate chain.
I held it up to the light, the metal cool and smooth against my palm. The hinge was slightly tarnished, and I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the clasp. Part of me wanted to open it, to see what was inside. But another part—the bigger part—wasn’t ready. Not yet.
As I lingered, my fingers tightened around the astronaut keychain in my other hand. It was solid, familiar. A reminder to stay grounded, even when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control. I slipped the locket into my hoodie pocket and stood, my movements slow and deliberate.
---
By the time I came back downstairs, the house was quiet. The vacuum had been retired for the evening, and Ashley’s door was shut tight. Dad was in the living room, his eyes glued to the evening news like always. I paused in the doorway, watching him for a moment. He looked tired—more tired than usual—but he didn’t notice me.
“Hey,” I said finally, breaking the silence.
He glanced up, startled, like he’d forgotten I existed. “Oh, hey, kiddo. Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, though the words felt hollow. “Just... wanted to say goodnight.”
His brow furrowed slightly, like he wanted to say something else, but after a beat, he just nodded. “Goodnight, Layla.”
I turned and headed back upstairs, the locket still clutched tightly in my hand. In the quiet of my room, I slipped it into my jewelry box, burying it beneath a tangle of mismatched earrings and frayed friendship bracelets. It wasn’t much, but it was mine.
And for now, that was enough.
