“You could at least do that much!”
The roar of my mother hit my ears the moment I stepped through the front door. Her voice carried the kind of sharpness that sliced through whatever fragile calm I had been holding onto. She sounded angry. Too angry. And today was not the day for me to face her.
Not after everything that had already happened. Not when my head was heavy and my heart heavier. Today had been exhausting, draining me from the inside out, and the last thing I wanted was to crumble under her rage. My only plan was simple—sneak past, slip into my room, lock the door, and pretend the world outside didn’t exist.
But life didn’t allow me that.
“Can’t you wash it properly? How many times have I told you to clean the dishes—” Her voice snapped through the hallway, and then she turned. Our eyes met.
I froze.
Her glare pinned me like a spotlight in the dark. My feet, which were halfway to the stairs, suddenly felt as heavy as stones. My throat dried up. Shit.
