My parents are my whole world. I am their whole world too—not that they had any choice, seeing as I was their only child—but yes, they adore me.
Aside from being the product of their very great love for each other, a fact they never failed to remind me of, I was also born through peculiar means. They had given up all hope when they finally had me, eight years into their marriage. At some point, they had tried adopting another child, but it fell through, and they never tried again.
My mother described that period as a "heartbreaking moment" and would not stop crying for a long while. Seeing as my father could not stand to see her sad—because of that great love—he decided they would not try again.
"There's no point raising our hopes so high only for them to be dashed," he had said.
So they poured all their attention into me and made sure I never lacked anything. They weren't the richest, but they tried their best, and as far as effort went, they had a solid A. We were comfortable. And I was very proud of them.
"Lila, use your seat belt," my mother said, pulling me back from my trip into the past.
"What were you thinking about so seriously? I've been trying to get your attention for the past few minutes."
I had taken off my headphones earlier, after the first road stop when we got down to stretch our legs and eat some snacks. The car still carried the mixed scent of biscuits, bottled juice, and petrol when we returned, and I didn't bother putting my headphones back on. That was when my trip into the past had begun.
"Sorry, Mum. It's teenager stuff," I answered, fixing my seat belt.
She replied with a snort. "You just turned thirteen. There's hardly any teenager in you yet."
"What?" I said with a horrified gasp.
"Of course you're a teenager, baby. Don't mind your mum," my father said, coming to my aid as usual.
"Yes," she said, dragging out the s, "a teenager who cannot tell the difference between horizontal and vertical."
"That's hardly grounds to judge. Some adults don't know it either," I shot back, putting my hand out the window to feel the breeze. The air was warm and smelled faintly of dust and sun‑baked grass, rushing past my fingers in soft, playful slaps.
I loved road trips for this reason alone—nature rushing past in a blur of green and brown, wide landscapes stretching endlessly beneath a pale blue sky. Tall trees gave way to open fields, and the road hummed steadily beneath the tyres. The wind brushed against my skin, tugging gently at my hair, filling my ears with a soft roar. Sometimes, if my father was feeling indulgent, he would open the little space at the top of the car so I could lift my upper body out, letting the sun warm my face while the world rushed past me.
"Of course," my mum said, "but you're not them anyway. You're also a teenager who can't make instant noodles, by the way."
"Mum! That was once," I protested.
Ever since I'd attempted to make noodles and she had walked into the kitchen to find me trying to add ketchup to an empty pot, she had banned me from her kitchen entirely—saving us all from the disaster I was clearly about to create. In my defence, I had simply wanted the noodles to have colour.
"Honey, you need to stop teasing her," my father said, trying—and failing—to hold back a laugh. The laugh burst out fully when I stuck my tongue out at my mum.
"Yeah. A teenager. Indeed," she said, laughing too.
"I can use my fists anyway. It might just get me anything I want," I mumbled.
"Your aunt's call should be coming in any moment now," my dad said, quickly changing the subject before I could start another argument with my mum.
"Yay! Can we ask if she got me what I asked for?"
"Of course, honey. You can ask her when she calls."
"Will the twins be there this year?" I asked, pretending to look out the window while hiding my suddenly warm cheeks behind my long hair.
Aunty B was my absolute darling—my dad's sister. We spent weeks with her every year around the time of my grandma's death anniversary. It was how we marked it, and it also gave the whole family a chance to be together.
"You ask the same question every year. Yes, they'll be there," my father replied.
"And maybe try not to fight them this year, Lila," my mum added. "Act like that teenager you say you are."
"I don't want to fight them anyway," I muttered, rolling my eyes.
"Did you say something?"
"No."
The twins—my cousins—were absolute pests. They were either trying to steal my chocolates or sneaking gum into my hair in the middle of the night. Their friend, on the other hand, who came with them every year, was completely different.
Apparently, being a teenager also came with having crushes.
Right on cue, my father's phone pings. He tells my mother to check it. She reaches for the phone, unlocks it—and her eyes widen in horror.
Then everything went to shit.