Field of dandelion

Morning Struggles

Chapter 5: Morning Struggles

I woke up with a start, my heart racing. The room was still dark, shadows dancing across the walls as the first light of dawn peeked through the curtains. It took me a moment to remember where I was: the Armando estate, my father's house.

I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was barely five in the morning. I sat up slowly, my muscles stiff and sore from yesterday's tension. Old habits die hard, and I was used to waking up early, long before anyone else. My stepfather had drilled that into me. I was always up before dawn to prepare his meals, iron his clothes, and clean the house. It was the only way to avoid his wrath.

Quietly, I slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom. I washed my face, trying to shake off the remnants of my nightmares. The girl in the mirror still looked like a stranger, but I ignored her and focused on the task at hand. Today, I would make breakfast for my new family. Maybe, just maybe, it would help me find a place here.

I tiptoed down the hallway, trying to remember the way to the kitchen. The house was so big and unfamiliar, but I eventually found it. The kitchen was a modern marvel, filled with sleek appliances and shiny surfaces. It was nothing like the tiny, outdated kitchen I was used to.

Taking a deep breath, I began my search for ingredients. I opened cabinet after cabinet, trying to find the basics: eggs, milk, bread. Everything was organized so differently here, and I felt a pang of frustration. Finally, I managed to gather enough to start cooking.

I struggled with the appliances, their touchscreens and buttons foreign to me. The stove took a few tries to turn on, and the oven seemed more like a spaceship than a cooking tool. I fumbled with the toaster, nearly burning the bread twice before getting it right. Sweat trickled down my back as I worked, the pressure to impress my family mounting.

I scrambled eggs, cooked bacon, and made toast. I even attempted pancakes, though they came out a bit lopsided. The kitchen filled with the aroma of breakfast, and I hoped it would be enough to show my brothers that I could be useful, that I belonged here.

As I was setting the table, footsteps echoed down the hallway. My heart skipped a beat, and I turned to see my father standing in the doorway, surprise etched on his face.

"Sia, what are you doing up so early?" he asked, concern lacing his voice.

"I...I made breakfast," I stammered, looking down at the table. "I wanted to help."

He walked over, examining the spread I had prepared. "This looks wonderful, Sia. You didn’t have to do this."

"I wanted to," I insisted, hoping my efforts would make a difference.

Soon, my brothers appeared one by one, drawn by the smell of food. Alexei was the first, followed by Dmitri, Yuri, and finally Sergei. They all looked at the table in varying degrees of surprise and confusion.

"I thought we had a chef for this," Sergei muttered, his tone dripping with disdain.

My heart sank at his words, but I forced a smile. "I wanted to help," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Help? You think this makes up for anything?" Sergei snapped, his eyes narrowing. "You should have stayed gone. You're nothing but trouble. We don't need you here, playing house."

I flinched at his words, tears stinging my eyes. I had hoped for a warm welcome, but this was a nightmare. Sergei's words cut deep, and I could feel the weight of his anger and distrust.

Before I could respond, my father stepped forward, his face a mask of controlled fury. "Sergei, that's enough," he said sharply. "Sia is your sister, and she belongs here just as much as you do."

Sergei glared at my father, his fists clenched. "She’s a burden. This isn’t her home."

"That’s not for you to decide," my father said, his voice cold. "I won’t tolerate any more of this behavior. You're grounded. Go to your room."

Sergei’s face twisted with anger, but he didn’t argue. "You think this changes anything, Sia? You think you can just waltz in here and everything will be perfect? You're pathetic," he spat, his voice seething with venom. "We don’t want you here, and we never will. You’re just a reminder of everything we lost."

My heart ached with every word, each one a dagger twisting deeper into my chest. Sergei stormed out of the kitchen, his footsteps echoing down the hall. The sound of his door slamming shut reverberated through the house.

The tension in the kitchen eased slightly, but the sting of Sergei’s words remained. My father turned to me, his expression softening. "Sia, you did a wonderful job. But you don't have to do this. You're part of this family now. You deserve to rest and enjoy your mornings."

I nodded, though his words felt distant. The need to earn my place here, to make up for lost time, was overwhelming.

"I'm sorry for Sergei's behavior," my father continued, his voice gentle. "He has his own struggles, but that's no excuse for how he treated you. I'll talk to him. You are wanted here, Sia, and I promise things will get better."

As they all dispersed to start their day, I began to clear the table, my mind a whirlwind of self-doubt and determination. I had made breakfast, but it was clear I still had a long way to go to truly belong in this family.