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𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐇 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊, the sun had already dipped below the horizon, casting an orange glow across the sky and deepening the shadows around the house. She trudged down the familiar path toward the front porch, feeling the cool evening air prickling her skin. She didn’t notice the new tarp hastily thrown over a hole in the wall — too lost in her thoughts to register much besides the familiar creak of the floorboards under her feet as she pushed the door open.
Inside, darkness greeted her, the faint scent of dust and something stale lingering in the air. The Christmas lights her mother had strung haphazardly across the room were still turned off, casting an eerie silence over the house. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she noticed the alphabet scrawled on the wall, the letters painted in crude, uneven strokes.
But it wasn’t the state of the house that made her heart lurch.
Sitting on the couch beside her mother was a figure she hadn’t expected — or wanted — to see.
Her father.
Elizabeth felt her breath catch as old, buried memories clawed their way to the surface. Her stomach twisted in a mixture of shock and anger, emotions so thick they nearly overwhelmed her.
In the middle of the room, Jonathan stood awkwardly, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Elizabeth demanded, her voice sharp and cold as she glared at her father. The room seemed to go still, her words hanging heavy in the air.
Lonnie stood up, his hands raised as if trying to pacify her. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said, his voice casual, dismissive. “Your mother’s upset enough, we don’t need you throwing one of your tantrums like always.” His words landed like a slap, dredging up every ounce of resentment she’d tried so hard to bury. He turned toward the kitchen, acting as if her anger was nothing more than a childish outburst.
Elizabeth clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. She shot her father a glare as he disappeared around the corner, her heart pounding with the familiar surge of frustration and fury he always managed to provoke.
Jonathan stepped toward her, his expression serious but uncertain. “Liz… I need to talk to you,” he murmured, glancing toward their father to make sure he wasn’t listening.
“Sure, later,” she replied, waving him off, her tone clipped. She moved to sit on the couch beside her mother, hoping the physical proximity would anchor her turbulent emotions. Her father’s sudden reappearance had stirred up old wounds she’d tried so hard to ignore, bringing back memories she’d rather forget. She took a deep breath, trying to remind herself that there were more urgent things to worry about — things bigger than the anger clawing at her insides.
