The second Roxie closed the front door, the whole house felt too quiet.

Claire dropped her keys into the chipped bowl by the door and kicked off one shoe, then the other. One landed sideways near the mat. The other hit the wall with a dull thud.

Roxie stood near the entryway with her backpack hanging from one shoulder, cheek stinging, scalp aching, suspension letter folded in her bag like it had gained weight on the drive home.

She still could not believe Claire had come to school.

Not just come.

Shown up.

Spoken.

Defended her.

Claire Jones had walked into Briarwick with wrinkled clothes and tired eyes and somehow made Bianca Reeves’s mother look small in front of everyone.

Roxie had replayed it the whole ride home.

What happened to my daughter’s face?

Is this bullying?

Nobody called me when gum was put in her hair.

My daughter.

The words kept moving around Roxie’s chest like they were trying to find a place to live.

Claire went into the kitchen and opened the freezer. "Sit down."

Roxie blinked. "What?"

Claire pulled out a bag of frozen peas. "Your cheek is swelling."

"I’m fine."

"You’re always fine." Claire shut the freezer with her hip. "Sit down anyway."

Roxie did.

Mostly because her legs were tired and because fighting felt harder in the kitchen under the yellow light, with Claire wrapping the peas in a dish towel like she knew how to do this.

Like she had always known.

Claire sat beside her and lifted the towel toward Roxie’s face.

Roxie flinched before she could stop herself.

Claire paused.

For one second, neither of them moved.

Then Claire lowered her voice. "I’m not going to hit you."

Roxie hated that the sentence had to exist.

"I know."

Claire pressed the cold towel carefully against Roxie’s cheek.

The cold bit into the scratch, and Roxie sucked in a breath.

"Sorry," Claire said.

Roxie stared at the table.

There was a burn mark near the corner from one of Claire’s cigarettes. A water ring from a glass. A little crack in the cheap plastic tablecloth Roxie had bought on sale last year because the old one had smelled like beer no matter how many times she wiped it.

Normal things that shouldn’t have mattered, but did right now.

Claire kept holding the towel to her cheek. Her hand shook just a little.

"You shouldn’t have come," Roxie muttered.

Claire’s eyes flicked to her. "How could I not?"

The answer was so quick.

So soft.

So unfair.

Roxie looked at her then.

Claire’s face was bare and tired. Her eyeliner had smudged at the corners. Her mouth looked dry. She did not look like the mother from the office, the one with sharp words and a hand on the back of Roxie’s chair like a warning sign.

She looked like Claire.

The woman who forgot bills.

The woman who slept through alarms.

The woman who let Steve too close.

The woman who could show up once and make Roxie want a whole childhood back.

Roxie’s throat tightened.

"Why aren’t you like this every day?" she asked.

Claire’s hand stopped.

The question sat between them.

Too big for the kitchen.

Too old for both of them.

Claire pulled the towel back. "Don’t start, Roxie."

Roxie laughed once. It came out ugly. "Of course."

"I said don’t start."

"You were amazing tonight." Roxie’s voice cracked despite how hard she tried to keep it sharp. "You came in there and acted like I mattered."

Claire’s mouth tightened. "You do matter."

"Then why don’t I matter here?"

Claire looked away.

That was the wrong answer.

Roxie stood so fast the chair scraped against the floor. "No. Don’t do that. Don’t look away."

"I’m tired."

"You’re always tired."

Claire’s eyes snapped back. "And you’re always angry."

"Because I’m always here."

Claire stood too. "What does that mean?"

"It means I’m here when you disappear. I’m here when you sleep all day. I’m here when the bills come. I’m here when you bring men into this house and expect me to pretend it’s normal."

Claire’s face changed. "This is about Steve."

Roxie’s stomach went cold.

"It’s always about Steve," Roxie said. "It should be about Steve. He climbed into my window."

Claire’s voice sharpened. "I know what he did."

"Do you?"

"Don’t talk to me like I wasn’t there."

"Were you?"

Claire stared at her.

Roxie’s whole body shook, but she could not stop now. "You showed up tonight and acted like my mom," Roxie said. "Then we come home and I’m supposed to just be grateful? Like, wow, thanks for one guest appearance?"

Claire’s face twisted. "I came and defended you."

"And tomorrow?"

Claire’s jaw worked.

Roxie stepped closer. "What about tomorrow? What about next week? What about when no one from Briarwick is there to hear you say my daughter?"

"Stop."

"Why? Because it’s embarrassing?"

"Because I can’t be what you want every second of the day."

Roxie went still.

"I’m not asking for every second," Roxie said. "I’m asking for once when it’s just us."

Claire’s eyes shone, but she blinked it away fast. "You think you’re the only one who’s had a hard life?"

Roxie stared at her.

"No," Roxie said. "I think I’m the only one in this house who keeps getting punished for yours."

Claire flinched like Roxie had slapped her.

Claire grabbed the towel from the table and threw it into the sink. The peas hit the basin with a wet thud.

"I did my best," Claire said.

Roxie’s laugh broke out of her. "Is that what this is?"

Claire’s face hardened. "You have no idea what I gave up for you."

"I never asked to be born."

The second it left her mouth, Roxie knew it was too much.

Claire’s eyes went flat.

The kind of flat that meant soft was gone.

"Trust me," Claire said. "I know."

Roxie’s breath caught.

For one second, she was back in the office, crying because Claire had touched her hair like she cared.

For one second, she hated herself for believing it.

Then anger rushed in to cover everything else.

"Fine," Roxie said. "Go back to Steve."

Claire’s head jerked.

"Roxie."

"No, really. Go. You’re better at choosing him anyway."

Claire’s voice dropped. "You need to watch your mouth."

"Why? You’ll leave again?"

Claire looked at her for a long second.

Then she said, too calmly, "You’ll be eighteen in November."

Roxie’s stomach dropped.

"What?"

Claire walked toward the counter and grabbed her cigarettes, then stopped like she remembered Roxie hated when she smoked in the kitchen. She held the pack in her hand anyway.

"You’ll be eighteen," Claire repeated. "You can live your own life soon."

Roxie stared at her.

The house seemed to tilt.

"Are you kicking me out?"

Claire looked tired again.

Worse than tired.

Done.

"I’m saying I can’t keep doing this."

"This?" Roxie’s voice sounded small now. She hated that too. "Me?"

Claire did not answer fast enough.

Roxie stepped back.

The chair bumped her leg.

Claire exhaled and rubbed her forehead. "I’m going to sell the house."

For a second, Roxie did not understand the words.

They were normal words.

Simple words.

Going. To. Sell. The. House.

But together, they did not make sense.

"You can’t," Roxie said.

Claire’s eyes lifted.

Roxie’s voice shook. "You can’t sell the house. This is grandma’s house."

"I can."

"No." Roxie shook her head. "No, you can’t just—where am I supposed to go?"

"You have time to figure it out."

Roxie stared at her mother.

Her mother.

The woman who had walked into Briarwick and asked why nobody protected her daughter.

The woman now standing in their kitchen, telling that same daughter to start planning where to exist when the house was gone.

"How much time?" Roxie asked.

Claire looked away again.

Roxie’s chest caved in.

"Mom."

Claire closed her eyes at the word.

That almost hurt more than everything else.

"I don’t know," Claire said. "Soon."

Soon.

Roxie nodded once.

It hurt more than she thought it would.

Which was stupid, because this had been her whole life. Taking whatever scraps Claire gave her and pretending it was enough. A ride here. A good day there. One moment in an office where her mother stood in front of her and sounded like someone Roxie could trust.

And Roxie had smiled through so much of it.

Smiled at school. Smiled at games. Smiled in pictures. Smiled while her own house rotted around her and her mother kept choosing everything except her.

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to fight Claire until one of them finally said the truth out loud.

She wanted to ask why she was so easy to drop.

But she was tired.

Just tired.

Because the second Claire had a chance to let go of her, she took it. And somehow Roxie was still standing there, clinging to the stupid hope that maybe, underneath all of it, Claire remembered she was her daughter.

"Okay," Roxie said.

Claire looked at her. "Roxie—"

"No, it’s okay." Roxie backed toward the hallway. "You made it clear."

"That’s not—"

"It is."

Claire took a step after her. "Don’t walk away from me."

Roxie laughed, and it came out wet. "That’s funny." 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

Claire stopped.

Roxie turned before her face could fully break.

She made it down the hallway.

Her bedroom door looked the same as always. White paint chipped near the handle. A tiny dent near the bottom from the time she had slammed it too hard freshman year. The cheap lock that barely worked but still made her feel like she had one thing in the house that belonged to her.

She opened it.

Stepped inside.

Closed it behind her.

Then locked it.

Only then did she let herself fall apart.

The first sob hit hard enough to fold her over. She pressed both hands to her mouth, but the sound came through anyway, ugly and desperate and too young for how tired she felt.

Her cheek throbbed.

Her scalp burned.

Her chest hurt worse.

On her desk, her pom-poms sat beside a half-finished math worksheet. Her cheer bow from the senior picture disaster hung over the mirror. Her phone buzzed in her bag, probably Angela, maybe Karen, maybe Zac, maybe the whole stupid world asking for pieces of her she did not have left.

Roxie ignored it.

She slid down against the door and pulled her knees to her chest.

Outside, the house stayed quiet.

No footsteps.

No apology.

No mother knocking.

Just Roxie in the only room she had ever trusted, crying because even that was not really hers anymore.