Left to Rot, Held by Her Again

I watched the dress in Rose’s hands and felt something break inside me. That dress had been mine once—kept wrapped in tissue in the back of my closet. It was one of my last connections to Mom.

Rose smirked as if she’d stolen the last piece of me. She twirled, making sure everyone saw the fabric catching light. “You should be grateful, sister,” she said, sweet as poison. “After all, Dad said I could have anything I wanted.”

My chest tightened. I wanted to scream. I wanted to snatch it back and tear the dress in two. But I stayed still. I remember Mom wearing that dress once at a charity event, laughing. The memory felt like a secret lamp—warm, private. Now Rose has made it a prop.

After the party, the house fell into its usual cold silence. I sat on the edge of my bed and touched the edge of my wrist where she’d bitten me—one of many wounds. People visit once, apologize, leave. The ache lasts.

Grandpa stayed as long as he could. He pulled me close and promised he’d see me tomorrow. He always tried to fix things, but he couldn’t change who Dad had become. Ethan’s anger had become part of the air in the house—impossible to breathe without it.

When I finally lay down, I thought about the way Dad had held me the day Mom died—how he’d sobbed, how he’d said he’d protect me. Somewhere in the middle of all this, I’d convinced myself that the man who once loved Mom would still love me. But tonight, he’d called me a curse in front of everyone. That hurt more than the bite, the slash, or the bruise. Words can cut deeper than any blade.

And yet—I kept going. I had to. Mom’s last wish was for me to live. For now, survival was enough. I’d keep my head down, keep my grades up, and try to make something of myself, even in a house that felt like a courtroom where I was always guilty.

But the dress, the party, the open humiliation—none of it would be forgotten. Something in me changed that night. The part that had hoped Dad would come to my rescue finally dimmed. The part that wanted to belong hardened like glass.

Either I learned to live with this, or I learned to fight.

Either way, nothing about my life at Harrington house would be the same.