Melina's POV
"Look at the time. Who were you with this late?!"
That's how I was welcomed home—by my mother's voice, sharp and cutting, echoing across the hallway like a whip. She stood there with her arms folded so tightly across her chest I thought they might fuse into her ribs. Her face carried no softness, no concern. Only anger.
Would it have killed her to worry about me instead?
I glanced at the clock hanging behind her head. 6:45 p.m. Not midnight, not one in the morning. Just early evening.
Dramatic much.
My father sat on the couch nearby, legs crossed neatly, the glow of his smartphone painting his face. He didn't even bother looking up properly—just half a glance, half a shrug, like my arrival wasn't worth the effort.
"But Mother," I said, setting my bag down gently by the door, "it's only 6:45. I just went out for coffee. With friends."
That's when I heard it—her laugh.
It wasn't warm. Not the kind that makes you feel safe. It was sharp, hollow, like glass shattering.
"You made friends? That's odd."
Ouch. That one stung more than I'd admit.
Her expression switched as quickly as flicking a light—laughter gone, anger back.
Argh. Mood swings much?
"6:45 is still late. And I'm hoping," she tilted her head, voice heavy with suspicion, "that these friends are only girls."
I sighed.
Father finally looked up from his phone, but through the gap between his spectacles—like peering at me from behind bars. "Didn't I tell you? No distractions. Focus on your studies."
"You're already behind in academics!" Mother snapped instantly, her voice overlapping his.
"Yes, way behind, Melodie!" Father chimed in.
"Learn a thing or two from Melo," Mother added, like the final nail in the coffin.
And just like that, I was the ping-pong ball being batted between them—left, right, left again—no chance to breathe.
Behind in academics? Really? I wasn't a topper, sure, but I did fine. Well enough.
Behind Melodie? Yeah, maybe, if you count her ability to forge their signatures.
"If you keep on being this brat, you'll end up homeless one day." That was Mother's finishing blow.
Homeless. Because I went for coffee. Because I came home a little late. Because i am making Friends.
Meanwhile, Melo still wasn't home.
The ache in my head started to spread, throbbing behind my eyes.
"You're useless," someone muttered under their breath. I don't know if it was Mother or Father. I didn't look up to find out. Because that feeling was rising in my chest—the one where it feels like my lungs are squeezing my heart, pressing until it hurts to even exist.
I turned away before they could see the crack in my mask. My bag hit the bed with a dull thud. I let myself fall face-first into the mattress, arms spread wide, shoes still dangling off the edge.
I didn't look like them. Not Father. Not Mother. Not even Melodie.
Sitting up, I reached for the photo frame on my nightstand. Our family picture from years ago—me at three, Melo just a baby, parents still young, still glowing. My lips curved into a soft, uninvited smile as my fingers brushed over the glass.
Father's arms wrapped me close in that photo, his face lit up as if I were his whole world. Mother's smile was wide, proud, as she cradled baby Melo. A perfect moment frozen in time.
A time when their smiles had included me.
Maybe it all changed after Melodie came along. Maybe that was when I started fading into the background.
"Miss Postgraduate Student, silent as always."
The voice snapped me out of my thoughts. Melodie barged in without knocking, her usual entrance.
She had always admired me, looked up to me. And I—I loved her like she was my own child, even though just three years separated us.
"I was thinking about my beautiful little sister," I teased, wiping at my eyes.
She squinted, tilting her head. "Am I a strong onion? Why are your eyes watery?"
Caught.
"Oh, probably just dust," I lied quickly, but Melodie wasn't buying it. She crossed her arms in the exact same way Mother had—except on her it looked stubborn, not scary.
"Did they scold you again?"
"Nooo," I started to deny, but Mother's voice interrupted.
"Melo! Come down for tea!"
Her call was like a magic spell—Melodie shot up and darted out before I could finish my sentence.
I changed into something more comfortable and followed. From the spiral staircase, I could already see them in the kitchen: Mother pouring tea, laughing at some joke, Father clutching his stomach with laughter, his head thrown back. Melodie added a cheeky comment that earned her a playful pinch on the cheek.
For a moment, my heart swelled at the sight. A warm family scene, something you'd see in a commercial.
Smiling, I hurried to join them, laughing along, even though I had no idea what the joke was.
I looked from face to face, soaking in the moment. But slowly, their laughter ebbed. Smiles faded into flat expressions. Mine lingered a little too long, and when it faltered, all that was left was the thin line of my lips.
Melodie's eyes softened as she looked at me. She knew. She always knew.
I raised the cup to my mouth to hide my embarrassment.
"That cup is for Father," Mother said.
I froze. Looked at the counter. Three cups, one kettle.
"Oh. Sorry, Mother." I extended the cup to Father.
He waved it off. "No need. I'll fetch another."
My hands trembled slightly. Did I ruin it just by touching it?
I took a sip anyway. The tea burned going down. Bitter—not in taste, but in everything it carried. Every reminder that I didn't belong here.
"Melina." Mother's voice. My name. That was all it took for me to push the bitterness aside, force a smile, sit up straighter. It had always taken so little.
"Yes, Mother?"
"Your friends," she said firmly, "keep them away. They might be a bad influence."
She didn't even know them.
"Remember, Melodie goes to the same college. People are watching." Her voice was serious, like this was some royal decree.
Adopted or not, I was still her daughter. Why didn't it feel like it?
I glanced at Melo. She mouthed: I'd never. I swear.
That was enough to make me chuckle, quietly, under my breath. I know she got my back.
Still… no matter what, I can't push back the bitterness I feel when I'm here. When I'm home.
"Momma's baby is looking so cute today," Mother cooed, kissing her on the forehead in a sing-song baby tone.
It amazed me how quickly she could shift gears—from ordering me around in that sharp, clipped voice to babying her with the sweetness of a lullaby.
"I am always cute, Mom," she replied, her voice playful, eyes bright.
Mother smiled at her. She smiled back at Mother.
And me? I smiled too, though mine was the sort of smile you wear when you're standing just outside the circle of warmth, gazing in. My spot was near the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching. No matter what, they are the only ones I have. They are the ones who stepped up, the ones who chose me, when no one else would. They gave me a home, shelter, food. If not for them… where would I be?
I remind myself of that fact often—almost like chanting a prayer. I am determined to make them happy, as much as I can. Even though I groan inwardly at their remarks, I've never truly disobeyed them. Except for that one rule: "No friends, no distractions." And except for the evening I said I had an assignment, when in reality I sneaked off to Zara's grandmother's birthday party.
That remind me of that adorable Lady—Grandma. Father's mother.
I miss her most in these quiet, in-between moments. I remember those summer vacations when Mother and Father would drop me off at her little house, while the three of them went away on trips that required plane rides. I told myself I didn't mind because I was afraid of heights anyway, but the truth is I minded. A lot.
Little me would stare at Sky smiling thinking they are spending time in sky. Waving to them, talking to sky as if it's them.
Those days Grandma always took me to walk.
Grandma's house smelled of sandalwood and something sweet always simmering in the kitchen. She would tuck me into bed with stories that started mid-sentence, like she had been waiting all year just to continue where she left off. If it hadn't been for her gentle nagging and endless persuasion, I wouldn't have gotten my first smartphone on my seventeenth birthday.
"Everyone your age has one," she scolded my parents in her soft but unyielding voice. "Let the child belong to her own time."
Adorable human being she is.
I wish I could see her again. I should visit her very soon.
Back in my room, I pulled a chair up to my desk. The notebook lay waiting, its cover creased from being opened and closed too many times. Writing here has become my safe zone, the only place where the words come out exactly the way they feel inside.
Pen against paper, I wrote:
"Having your wrinkled, old-age hand in mine is the most heart-wrenching and beautiful feeling I have ever known. The way your fingers struggle to hold on makes me want to hold you tighter. Please, keep living with me, Grandma."
I hope she is doing great. She might be lonely. It hurts to think she walking alone along the stream, Talking to her hens. Gathering eggs by herself.
Will she be okay alone?
I leaned back, hearing the faint hum of the ceiling fan. breathe.
Then—ding. A notification.
My phone lit up, the screen cutting into the quiet. A text from Zara:
"Can you come with me to shop tomorrow? It's Sunday. Please don't say no."
I stared at it, chewing the inside of my cheek. The familiar guilt crept in, heavy and sharp.
Is this the third lie I'm going to tell my parents?
At this rate, I'll lose count soon.
Amazing.
"Sure " I replied.
"Thanks! There'll be Theo too"
WHAT?!!
To be continued...