The days fell into a rhythm that felt more like a survival tactic than a life. After I confessed everything to the aunt who cooked for us—the raw, jagged details of my father's cold announcement— She didn't waste time on empty sympathy. She simply looked at me, her hands still busy with her work, and said, "Stay strong, Iris. Watch everything closely. Your emotions are your own, but for now, you must learn to hold them back."
Her lack of coddling hit me like a splash of cold water. I felt a flush of embarrassment rise to my cheeks. Why had I spilled it all? I had promised myself I would be stronger, that I would not be the fragile child who needed a shoulder to cry on. I owed it to my mother, and I owed it to myself, to be self-contained.
I returned to my routine with a renewed, brittle focus. In college, I filled the silence with the idle chatter of classmates. We were close enough to share assignments and lunch, but I kept the real version of myself tucked away behind a polite, impenetrable mask.
Even with Luca, things were different. We had mended the bridge, but the architecture of our friendship had changed. There was an invisible line between us now—a barrier I didn't dare cross and he didn't seem to want to. I felt the distance in the way he spoke, in the way he kept his gaze averted just a second longer than he used to. My heart ached to reach out and pull things back to the way they were, but I stopped myself. It is too harsh to expect him to be the same, I told myself. As long as we are friends, it is enough.
I turned my life into a recurring loop. When the loneliness threatened to pull me under, I would blast music, singing along until my throat felt raw and the lyrics drowned out the thoughts of my father's betrayal. Then, I would bury myself in my books again.
Seven days passed in this blur of forced composure. The calendar on my wall marked the time with clinical cruelty: only three days left until the wedding.
The routine had become my armor. I spent the afternoon in my room, the volume on my headphones cranked high, trying to drown out the silence of the house with a mix of familiar melodies. It was a holiday, and for once, the crushing weight of the world felt like it was sitting just outside my door.
Then, the first shout pierced through the music.
I paused, pulling the headphones down around my neck. It was my father. He was in his room, his voice rising in an aggressive, sharp cadence that made the walls tremble. I stood up, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach. I walked to his room and knocked, opening the door slightly. "Father? Is everything okay? Why are you shouting?"
He spun around, phone pressed to his ear, his face flushed and irritable. He waved a dismissive hand at me. "It's nothing, Iris. Go back to your room. Everything is fine."
"If you say so," I said, my voice cold. "But keep it down. The neighbors will complain if you keep screaming like that."
"I know, I know," he snapped, turning his back to me to continue his call.
I retreated to my room, feeling a flare of genuine annoyance. I lay back down, trying to reclaim my peace, but minutes later, the volume escalated. The shouting was louder, frantic, and filled with a jagged hostility that ruined any chance of rest. My frustration boiled over. I didn't knock this time; I barged into his room, my own temper finally snapping.
"What's going on?" I demanded, my voice icy. "I asked before if something was wrong, and you lied. Now you're screaming again. If you're going to be this loud, you should at least share what's happening. Who are you even talking to?"
He looked startled, his hand shaking slightly as he pulled the phone away from his ear. "I'm just... I'm angry. They are saying something truly ridiculous."
"They?" I crossed my arms, my patience entirely spent. "Who is 'they'? How am I supposed to understand what's happening when you speak in riddles? Just tell me."
He sighed, his shoulders slumping as he stared at the phone. "It's... it's her. The woman I'm marrying in two days." He gestured vaguely at the air. "She's calling to tell me she has no intention of doing any housework. She says if I want to marry her, I have to hire a housekeeper to handle everything. She refuses to lift a finger in this home."
I stared at him, stunned by the absurdity.
I felt a sharp, incredulous laugh escape my lips. It was a lover's quarrel, a trivial domestic dispute playing out three days before a wedding, and he was dragging me into the middle of his chaos. "So that's it? A power struggle over chores? a lover's quarrel?" I shook my head in disbelief. "Do whatever you want, Father, but keep it low. I am trying to rest in the next room, and I have no interest in your petty disagreements."
I turned and walked out, leaving him standing there. I went back to my bed, determined to sleep, pulling the blanket up and closing my eyes, desperate to shut out the rest of the world.
I was just drifting off when the sound of footsteps thundered down the hall. My door burst open without a knock. My father stood there, his face pale and eyes wide, looking less like a man about to be married and more like a man drowning.
"Iris! Iris, please," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "You have to help me. You have to fix this."
My eyes snapped open, and a surge of hot, pure rage flooded my veins. He had woken me from my only moment of peace to demand that I fix the mess he had created with his new partner.
"Help you?" I sat up, my voice trembling with suppressed fury. "What?How can I help you? How can I meddle in your affairs, your problems, or your miserable choices? You should solve your own problems, Father. Leave me out of it."
I was ready to shut him out again, but the sheer desperation on his face—the way his shoulders shook—stopped me cold. Despite the anger, despite the betrayal of the last few months, the old habit of being his daughter kicked in. My heart sank.
"Wait," I said, my voice softening against my will. "Tell me. What is wrong? I'm listening. Just tell me."
He stepped into the room, his eyes brimming with a mix of shame and panic. "It's like I said. We are arguing. She is adamant. She says if I want to marry her, I must arrange a maid. She won't touch a single chore, Iris. She says she isn't a servant. I don't know what to do."