The house was completely silent, the kind of silence that pressed in on Zara's ears until she became painfully aware of her own breathing. Outside, the wind tore through the street, cutting past the bare trees and rattling loose signs.
Across the road a figure stood partially concealed by shadow, watching the house intently.
"I came back to ask again about what you meant I cannot go?" Zara said, and though she tried to keep her voice steady, it trembled on the first word. She hated that. She hated how easily she sounded small. Do not be pathetic, she told herself. You already know you are, just do not show it.
Greta did not look up from her plate. "It means you cannot go."
Her fork shook as she lifted it, a piece of potato slipping off and landing on the wooden floor. Zara stared at it, at the small wet mark it left behind. Her mother would clean it later, she knew. She always did, moving around the kitchen humming to herself, large and content, bumping into cupboards without care, while Zara felt like she was slowly being crushed inside her own chest.
"Mum, I need to go," Zara said, forcing the words out carefully, as if she said them gently enough they might be heard differently. "Resha is my best friend. I left without explaining anything and I need to fix it. I need to see her. It is just a week. One week."
"You will miss Christmas."
"Why does that matter so much?" Zara snapped before she could stop herself. "When we lived with him, I missed birthdays. I spent them with Resha. What is the difference now?"
"Patrick is not that demon," Greta said sharply.
Heat rushed to Greta's face, two bright spots blooming on her cheeks, sweat gathering at her hairline. The kitchen felt too warm, too tight, the air buzzing with everything that had been unsaid for weeks.
For years.
Patrick stood abruptly. "I will check on Zion," he said, kissing Greta's cheek before leaving.
"Mum, you are being unfair."
"Unfair?" Greta laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I want my daughter with me for the first Christmas we have ever had as a family. You have barely smiled in months and one letter from that girl turns you into someone else."
"She is the only one who makes me smile," Zara shot back. "So of course I am happy."
"Hush. You can visit her anytime. Christmas is for family."
It was the way Greta went back to eating, as if the conversation was finished, as if Zara's happiness had been neatly folded away and discarded, that finally pushed her over the edge. Zara felt something tear loose inside her chest, something she had been holding together by sheer habit.
"Resha makes me happy," she said quietly. "Being here does not. Does that mean nothing to you at all?"
Greta hummed, mouth full of potatoes. "You need time."
The words curdled in Zara's stomach.
"You disgust me," she said, her voice rising despite herself. "You get fatter and happier every day and you do not care about me. It is Patrick and Zion and whatever is growing inside you. That is all you care about."
Greta merely stared at her and that was the reason Zara began screaming.
"I AM GOING TO SEE RESHA."
"No you are not."
Zara grabbed her plate and hurled it to the floor. The crash sounded distant, unreal, as if it happened in another room. Patrick came rushing back, shouting, but Zara barely registered him. Everything inside her was unraveling too fast, doors she had kept locked flying open all at once, spilling years of anger, hate, grief, and exhaustion she no longer had the strength to hold back.
She screamed until her head pounded and her throat burned, telling her mother she was selfish, just like her father, hurting her over and over without even realizing it. Patrick lifted her then, carrying her as she thrashed and screamed, her vision narrowing until the world finally went dark.
Outside, the figure across the street shook with silent laughter.