Christopher dropped me off without so much as walking me to the door. I watched his taillights disappear down the street, and still—my fingers clutched the car door handle, like it could hold me together.
I didn't want the night to end. Not because it was magical—but because when it did, real life started again.
And real life, lately, was a mountain I didn't know how to keep climbing.
The porch light flickered as I unlocked the front door. "No one's home," I murmured, digging through my bag for the key. The familiar jingle met my fingers. I slid it into the lock, and stepped inside.
The house greeted me with a hush that felt too heavy to be peaceful.
Faded cream-colored wallpaper clung to the walls, peeling slightly at the corners—like it had grown tired of holding on. Years of sunlight had drained the vibrancy from everything, leaving behind a palette of beige and exhaustion.
The furniture—remnants of my father's years working as a butler for the Hart family—stood like weary sentinels. Once regal, now dulled by time. Mom did her best to keep things polished, but age had settled into the seams.
Wooden panels lined the narrow hallway, their surface unevenly glossy from decades of habit. A vintage cabinet rested near the wall, its glass cracked at the corner, still displaying bone china no one dared touch. A threadbare curtain hung limp over the front window, filtering in the faint orange glow of the streetlamp outside.
The couch—a sagging brown relic from another era—was buried under mismatched throw pillows that had long since lost their fluff. The TV remote peeked out from a leaning stack of newspapers, and somewhere underneath it all was the familiar scent of fried oil and eucalyptus vapor rub, clinging like memory.
Even in its slow decay, the house tried to hold on to dignity.
Scuffed shoes lined the base of the staircase like tired soldiers. A half-dead plant drooped by the doorway, as if it too had given up. The slow tick of the wall clock echoed in the silence—steady, tired, and always a few minutes late.
The house was quiet, still. I made my way to my room, my body ached with exhaustion, but I still pulled out my planner, flipping to today's date
"Date with Christopher: check," I whispered, drawing a tired tick beside it, and tossed my bag to the corner.
A long sigh escaped my lips. "Now for a shower and bed." I slipped off my shoes and began unzipping my dress—
I was halfway out of my dress when the doorbell rang. I flinched.
Ding-dong.
"That must be Kara," I sighed.
Sure enough.
"Hey, Kara," I smiled, opening the door, pulling her into a hug.
"Ugh, stop snuggling me," she groaned, squirming free. "I'm not a kid anymore."
"You'll always be my baby sister," I said, ruffling her hair.
"I just got that done!" She batted my hand away and she stormed inside, flopping onto the couch.
"You have such a bad temper," I sighed, sitting beside her.
"Where's Mom?" she asked, glancing around.
"Probably out with Dad. She likes to wheel him around the estate. You know how he is—stays in unless someone practically drags him outside."
Dad hadn't left the house much in years, his paralysis had drained every spark from him, Now he spent most of his time in silence. Since the accident sixteen years ago, he stopped trying. he'd given up on the outside world—and nearly everything else. Everything had changed that day. Mom had taken on the care giving, but emotionally, she wasn't all there either. The burden had shifted to me long ago.
I was still a girl, but I grew up overnight. I got a job, then another. I learned to juggle bills, tuition, medicine, groceries, and heartbreak.
"You were supposed to be home three hours ago," I said, turning to Kara.
"I have a social life, you know. You don't expect me to sit at home like a ghost, do you?"
"You could do something equally fun. Like reading."
"Ugh, not the lecture again." She rolled her eyes.
"You can't keep skipping classes. If you do, I'm done paying your fees."
She smirked. "Oh, please. You love me too much."
I sighed. She was right. I did. And it was the problem.
My gaze dropped to her wrist. "Is that my wristwatch? The one Christopher gave me?"
"Yeah. It was in your drawer. Looks good on me, right?"
"Kara!" My voice cracked louder than I meant. "You made me late. He was upset—because of that watch!"
"Over a watch? See, this is why I don't get your relationship."
"And he scolded you over a wristwatch?" She scoffed. "I still don't get why you're with him."
"Because I love him," I snapped. "And he loves me. Obviously."
"Sure." She returned to her phone.
She looked me over, then frowned. " Is this what you wore on the date?"
I glanced down at myself.A navy-blue blouse tucked into a high-waisted beige skirt, with a simple gold chain Christopher gave me for our anniversary. Sensible heels. Neat. Safe
"Yes. Why?"
Kara smirked.
"You look like you were interviewing for a job."
"That's not true. Christopher said I looked dashing."
"If you say so."
The doorbell rang again.
"Ugh. Kara, get the door."
"You get it. I'm busy." She didn't look up.
"I'm tired." I groaned.
"So am I. It's not like it's a five-mile walk to the door." She said
I bit my tongue, stood, and opened it.
The moment I opened the door, the air changed.
"Hey, Mom... Dad..." forcing cheer into my voice
"Hello, sweetheart," Mom said, pulling me into a hug. Dad offered a weak smile from his wheelchair.
Then I saw them. "Hannah? Tom? What are you guys doing here?"
"Family dinner," Mom said, wheeling Dad inside. "Didn't you get the text?"
"I hadn't checked my phone."
"Of course not," Kara chimed. "You were too busy with Christopher."
"Speaking of food, is dinner ready?" Hannah dropped onto the couch. Tom trailed behind her.
"Figures you'd be hungry. Not like there's enough at your house anyway," Kara mumbled.
"Oh, shut up," Hannah barked. "Mom, make her stop."
"Kara, please," Mom sighed. "Try not to fight with your sister tonight."
"Kara. Kitchen. Now," she added.
"Tell Sarah I'm tired." Kara didn't even glance up.
"You're not working. You're not tired. Go."
"Ugh! What about Tom? He's not doing anything,Let him help." kara groaned.
"Me?" Tom blinked.
"Yeah, you. Make yourself useful for once."
"Kara!" Hannah snapped.
Kara bolted toward the kitchen before fists flew. I leaned against the wall, exhausted just watching them.
Dinner followed the same pattern it always did—chaos in slow motion.
Mom brought out the insulated food container, the kind that locked in heat long enough to make dinner feel freshly cooked. Kara laid the plates.
The dining table, still the antique mahogany piece my father proudly bought on discount from his former employer's estate, stood in the center of the room like a ghost of better times. Its legs wobbled slightly, its finish long dulled, but we couldn't let it go. Not yet.
I fetched the juice, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the shouting. I poured juice into glasses, but I wasn't hungry. I'd already eaten.
"Come on, everyone. Let's eat," Dad said, rolling to the table.
We all gathered. Kara served everyone, pausing when she got to me.
"I'm fine with just the juice," I said when Kara came to me. "I've already eaten."
"You should've read the text," she muttered, serving Tom.
"More, please," he smiled.
"Of course. Because you love free food," Kara smirked.
She piled more on his plate.
"That's enough!" he laughed nervously.
Dad's voice cut through. "Kara, he said enough."
She dropped the spoon. "Just saying. He eats like he's stocking for winter."
"Why do you hate my husband so much?" Hannah snapped.
"Do you really want to know?" Kara echoed. "Oh, let's see—"
"Enough," I slammed my hand on the table. The room froze. Forks hovered. Mouths shut.
We ate in awkward silence.
"So, Sarah," Dad finally said, "how's work?"
"Stressful."
"Speaking of," Mom added, "Smith asked about rent again. I took a small job, but it's not enough."
I nodded. Kara's tuition. Dad's meds. Rent. Groceries. Hannah and Tom's bills. My job barely covered survival.
"I'll figure something out, I'll handle it."
I said it like I always did, the way people say "It's fine" when they're standing on a crumbling bridge.
Mom gave me a pitying look. "It would be easier if your lazy sister helped." She swatted Kara.
"Ouch!" Kara shouted. "Why not tell Tom?" Kara barked. "His wife works and we're footing their bills. Reverse roles, much?"
"Kara!" I said.
"What? I'm being honest. I'm just saying. Maybe Tom should be a house husband. He's already halfway there."Tom choked.
"Water!" Hannah screamed.
I rushed to the kitchen, grabbed a glass, and handed it to him. He sipped slowly, face red.
Hannah's eyes burned. "I've had enough. You always insult him. He's my husband. He's not a loser. He's just... struggling."
"Why do we bother with these dinners?" she continued. " And Mom, stop pretending this family reunion thing is ever going to work, this family is broken. Sarah still hates me for leaving. Kara hates Tom. You and Dad never forgave us."
"You're right," Kara said. "You messed up."
"That was nine years ago!" Hannah snapped. She stood, pulling Tom up with her. "Come on. Let's go."
"Hannah—" I started.
"Tell Stella and John their aunt says hi."
She opened the door. Then she was gone Silence fell again. I looked around the table.The food was untouched. Everyone looked tired. Sad. No Hannah. No Tom. Just Kara, silent at last, scraping her plate with the fork like it owed her something
I'd spent all day trying to hold it together—and here it was: another broken dinner.
Kara, this is your mess. Clean up the table," I said to Kara. My voice was flat, final.
She blinked but obeyed.
I stood. "Mom, Dad. I'm heading to bed. Good night"
I turned and left the room. I didn't want to fight anymore.
I climbed the stairs slowly. one heavy step at a time. My limbs ached. My head throbbed.
My room hadn't changed much since my school days. Faded lilac paint. Shelves overflowing with old textbooks and medical journals. The same chipped desk by the window where I studied for my pharmacy exams and scribbled life goals I barely had time for now.
The curtains Mom sewed years ago hung slightly crooked, and my single bed—made with mechanical precision—sat like a soldier ready for duty.
My old pharmacy textbooks still lined the shelf—remnants of a plan I'd long abandoned.
I used to dream of becoming a pharmacist, of saving lives, of making something stable out of chaos.
But dreams don't pay rent.
When things got hard, I pivoted. Business administration was quicker, cheaper, and it got me a job as an event planner—stable enough to keep everything from falling apart.It wasn't what I'd dreamed of. But dreams didn't pay tuition. Or rent. Or keep my family afloat.
Behind my closed bedroom door, the quiet returned. I opened my planner.
Rent. Fees. Medications. A blur of numbers and deadlines.
At the bottom, I scribbled a note: Fix the leak. That damn leak still dripped somewhere behind the walls.
There was no space left for dreams—only duty
I collapsed into my bed without changing, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow would come fast. It always did.
And I had to be ready to carry it— Again and again and again.