Chapter 1I owned two houses. But since I was seventeen, I HADN'T spent a single night in either of them.
The reason? I just couldn't go back.
Because living there instead, my mother, my stepfather. And the two kids he brought into the mix.
My mom used to say: "We're family, honey. We'll just squeeze in and make it work."
But turned out? I was the one who got squeezed out.
When the relatives found out, they just gave me that look and tried to talk me down: "Your mom's had it rough, kid. Just be the bigger person."
The bigger person.
I'd been hearing that crap for six years.
Six years later, I finally graduated.
The first thing I did? Wasn't hunt for a job.
I called a locksmith.
Huh. Time to pack up, dear Mom!
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The locksmith finished up with the last deadbolt and handed me three shiny new keys.
Brass-colored and blindingly bright.
I squeezed them in my palm, the metal edges digging into my skin.
"Alright, hon, all three doors are done. High-security stuff. That'll be four hundred and eighty bucks."
I pulled five hundred-dollar bills from my bag and told him to keep the change.
The moment the door clicked shut, the apartment went dead silent.
The hum of the AC units, the smell of grease from the diner downstairs, some neighbor's brat crying—it was all sealed away.
I stood in the entryway, staring at the new lock for a long time.
The stainless steel faceplate was twice as thick as the one my dad had put in six years ago.
Six years.
Back when my dad was around, this door was never locked.
He used to say the folks on Hawthorne Lane had been neighbors for decades, and locking the door was like "giving the finger to a friend."
Then he passed away.
And after that, this door never opened for me again.
It was the winter of 2018. I was fifteen.
My dad was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. From the news to the funeral—forty-seven days.
One afternoon, when he was finally lucid, he called me over to his bedside.
"Clementine, I put both houses in your name."
He fumbled under his pillow for a manila envelope. Inside were the two deeds.
"17 Hawthorne Lane, and the smaller place over on Riverview Drive."
I couldn't process any of it back then, all I could do was cry.
His hand was skeletal, knuckles poking out as he stroked my hair.
"After I'm gone, you gotta look after yourself, okay?"
He didn't mention my mother once.
Thinking back, maybe he already knew what was coming.
Before the funeral was even over, my mom's phone wouldn't stop buzzing.
Those days were a blur, but I remember some man's voice suddenly echoing through our house.
"Minna, let me help you handle the arrangements."
The guy's name was Arthur Vance. Forty-six, a contractor. His hands were rough, with grime permanently stained under his fingernails.
A week after my dad's passing, he spent his first night at our place.
By the end of the mourning period, his suitcases were parked right outside the master bedroom.
My mom said, "Arthur is just here to help. A house needs a man around."
I stayed quiet.
I thought "help" was temporary.
But two months later, the "help" turned into him moving in.
And moving in turned into a full-blown takeover.
And he didn't come alone.
One Saturday around noon, I walked in from school to find two strangers sitting on the living room sofa.
A boy and a girl.
The guy was five or six years older than me, boots up while he played games. The girl was hogging the whole coffee table, doing her makeup in a hand mirror.
"These are Arthur's kids, Hunter and Lily," my mom introduced them with a smile.
"We're all going to be one big family now, so try to get along."
Hunter glanced at me, said nothing, and went back to his game.
Lily didn't even look up.
I stood in the middle of the living room, my backpack straps digging into my shoulders.
Something felt dead wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it.
Until I pushed open the door to my bedroom.
My desk was gone.
In its place was a folding army cot, covered in some cheap plaid sheets I'd never seen before.
My books, my lamp, the guitar I'd practiced on for three years—it was all piled into cardboard boxes on the balcony.
"I gave your room to Lily," my mom said as she walked up behind me, her tone way too casual. "You'll sleep in the sunroom nook for now. We all just need to squeeze in."
I stood there in front of those boxes, my throat tightening.
"Squeeze in."
That was the first time I heard those words.
Chapter 2
The "nook" was a four-square-meter glass box.
Just enough room for that cot and a plastic storage bin.
The winter wind whistled through the gaps in the cheap window frames. I had to sleep under two heavy duvets just to stop shivering.
But I could deal with that.
What I couldn't handle was the dinner table.
Before Arthur moved in, the fridge was always stocked.
My dad had left my mom three hundred thousand in savings and two houses.
But once Arthur arrived, the fridge went bare.
He didn't work. He just sat in the living room all day watching TV, leaving mountains of cigarette butts in the ashtray.
My mom changed, too.
She used to call my name when dinner was ready. Now, it was always, "Hunter! Lily! Food's on the table!"
I had to listen for the clinking of silverware just to know it was time to eat.
One time, I came out a few minutes late.
There were four place settings. The pot was scraped clean, and the serving plates held nothing but grease.
Lily was eating out of the vintage porcelain bowl my dad had given me.
"That's my dad's bowl," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but everyone heard me.
Lily didn't even pause her chewing. "Your mom gave it to me. What's the big deal?"
I looked at my mother.
She wouldn't meet my eyes.
"It's just a bowl. Go grab another one from the cupboard."
I didn't grab another one.
I just turned around and went back to my nook.
That night, I did my homework on an empty stomach while laughter drifted in from the living room.
Arthur was cracking some joke, and my mom was laughing—loud.
I shut the door and pulled the duvet over my head.
Life went on like this for over a year.
In the spring of 2020, I was seventeen.
The whole thing started over something tiny.
Hunter had tossed all the books from my dad's study into the trash to make room for his gaming chair and triple-monitor setup.
Those books belonged to my father. Some of them even had his signature on the inside covers.
I dragged them back from the dumpster, one by one, and piled them in the living room.
"You can't throw these away."
Hunter didn't even look away from his screen. "Your mom said I could."
"This is my dad's stuff!"
"Your dad is dead, kid. Why keep 'em? They're just taking up space."
My hands started to shake.
And that's when I said it.
I said, "This is the house my father left for me."
It wasn't a shout.
But the whole room went dead silent.
Arthur crushed his cigarette out in the tray and looked up.
My mom marched out of the kitchen, her face darkening second by second.
"Clementine Hudson, what did you just say?"
"I said, this is my dad's house. My name is on the deed."
There was a silence that lasted maybe three seconds.
Then my mom lunged forward and slapped me across the face.
My ear rang. The left side of my face felt like it had been branded with a hot iron.
"You think you're so grown now?! This is a home! A family home! And you're gonna stand there talking about 'deeds'—who exactly are you calling a stranger here?!"
I held my face. I didn't cry.
Arthur stood up, brushing the ash off his jeans.
"Forget it, Minna. If the kid doesn't want us here, don't force it."
His tone was perfectly flat. Perfectly calm.
Like he was stating the most obvious thing in the world.
My mom looked at him with watery eyes, then looked at me.
Finally, she looked back at him.
"Clementine, go stay with your grandparents for a few days. Come back when you've cleared your head."
"A few days." That's what she promised.
And I believed her.
That night, I packed a single suitcase. I tucked my dad's manila envelope into the very bottom.
On my way out, I glanced back at the living room.
Hunter was already back in his chair, gaming.
Lily was sitting at my desk, staring into the mirror, applying double eyelid tape.
My mom stood by the door, her expression a mess of emotions.
"Go on. Tell your grandparents I'll come pick you up in a couple of days."
A couple of days.
Those "a couple of days" turned into six years.
Chapter 3
My grandparents lived in a two-bedroom apartment in a gritty, pre-war building on the South Side.
Grandpa cleared out his tiny den for me and moved himself onto a pull-out sofa in the living room.
He didn't ask a single question.
On my first night there, he just set a bowl of hot chicken soup on my desk.
"Eat if you're hungry. If not, just leave it."
I ate it. I even finished every last drop of the broth.
Grandma stood in the doorway watching me, then turned away to wipe her eyes.
She didn't ask why, either.
Maybe she already knew.
For the first month, I waited every single day for my mom to come get me.
I kept my phone right by my pillow with the volume cranked all the way up.
By the second month, I stopped waiting and called her myself.
"Mom, when can I come home?"
The other end was noisy, like they were in the middle of dinner.
"Just a little longer, honey. We're doing some renovations right now."
"Okay," I said.
I called again in the third month.
"Now's not really a good time. Lily's got big exams coming up, and we don't want to distract her."
The fourth month.
"Clementine, be a good girl. Isn't it nice staying with your grandparents?"
By the fifth month, I stopped calling.
She actually showed up to visit, though.
She was wearing a brand-new wool coat, her hair freshly permed, carrying a bag of groceries.
"Clementine, baby, Mom's here to see you."
She stroked my hair, her eyes welling up.
"I miss you so much. You just focus on your studies, okay?"
"So, can I move back in?" I asked.
Her smile flickered for a split second.
"The house is just so crowded right now. Let's wait a while."
A three-bedroom house, with three people in it, and there's "no room."
The room I'd lived in for fifteen years belonged to Lily now.
Were my desk, my lamp, and my guitar still rotting in those cardboard boxes on the balcony?
I didn't ask.
She gave me a hug at the door before she left.
"Mommy loves you."
I heard that line a thousand times after that.
Every time she visited, she said it.
And every time, she walked away right after.
Not once was it followed by, "Come back home."
I spent all three years of high school at my grandparents' place.
My mom would swing by maybe once every two or three months.
It was always the same routine.
Walk in, drop off some fruit, pat my head.
Say a few words about "studying hard."
Give me a hug.
"Mommy loves you."
Then leave.
One time, Grandpa walked her down to the street. When he came back up, he looked livid.
"She drove that car again," he muttered.
I knew exactly what he meant.
My dad's grey Volkswagen. Arthur was the one behind the wheel now.
Grandpa sat on the sofa, smoking in silence for a long time.
Finally, he said, "Clementine, the things your father left you—you keep those close. Don't let go."
I nodded.
The manila envelope stayed at the very bottom of my suitcase, untouched.
The year I graduated high school, I got into the state university. I chose Pre-Law.
Not because I loved it.
Because it was a weapon.
