Chapter 1
The sun had barely risen when Anne stumbled out of her room, her hair a messy tumble of dark curls spilling over her bare shoulders.
Her black tube top hung loosely against her frame, and her shorts barely covered her thighs.
Sleep still clung to her face, but she looked more like someone shaking off a hangover than waking from rest.
She padded across the living room, barefoot, the cool tiles soothing against her skin.
Her silver anklet jingled faintly with each lazy step — a delicate contrast to the careless way she moved.
The fridge door creaked as she yanked it open. Cold air poured out, brushing her flushed skin.
Her eyes scanned the shelves — ignoring the juice, milk, and leftover food — before landing on a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
With a shrug, she grabbed it, poured some into a glass, and took a long sip.
The liquor burned down her throat, and she winced before sighing, “Ah… that’s better.”
“Anne!”
The voice came from the kitchen, sharp and weary all at once.
“Please tell me that’s not alcohol you’re drinking at—” her mother paused, squinting at the wall clock, “—eight in the morning!”
Anne turned, glass still in hand, eyes half-lidded with irritation. “Relax, Mom. It’s just a sip.”
Her mother, Mrs. Reynolds, appeared in the doorway, wooden spoon clutched like a weapon.
Her apron was dusted with flour, her hair pinned up hastily, and frustration painted every line on her face.
“A sip?” she echoed, voice rising. “Anne, it’s whiskey! For heaven’s sake, do you even hear yourself?”
Anne leaned against the counter, arms crossed, the hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “You act like I’m committing a felony. It’s not that deep.”
Her mother’s gaze swept over her, and her eyes widened.
“What are you wearing?” she demanded. “Good Lord, Anne—put on some clothes!”
Anne glanced down, confused. “It’s just underwear. Who’s going to see me here?”
“Your brothers are home, that’s who!” her mother snapped, smacking the spoon against her palm. “They’re grown men, Anne! Do you want them to think—”
“Oh, Mom, come on,” Anne interrupted, rolling her eyes. “They’re my brothers. We literally grew up together.
It’s not like they haven’t seen me before.”
“That’s different!” her mother shot back, her voice sharp enough to cut through the air. “You’re nineteen, not nine!”
Anne shrugged and lifted her glass again. “Still doesn’t matter.”
Mrs. Reynolds exhaled, long and shaky, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You know what, I am tired of this attitude.
Every single morning, it’s something with you. You sleep all day, come home late, and now you’re drinking like—”
“Like what, Mom?” Anne challenged, her tone hardening. “Say it.”
Her mother froze mid-motion, jaw tight. She turned back to the stove, muttering under her breath as she stirred the pan.
The scent of frying eggs and peppers filled the air, but the rhythm of her movements was tense, angry — each motion sharp, controlled.
She grabbed a plate, slammed it onto the counter, opened a drawer too roughly, and clattered utensils inside it.
Anne sat at the dining table, chin propped on her palm.
She wasn’t even hungry. She took another slow sip, pretending not to care, though her pulse quickened with each passing second.
“You know what your problem is?” her mother said suddenly, spinning around to face her. “You think the whole world revolves around you.
You think you can do whatever you want and someone else will always pick up the mess.”
Anne groaned softly, rubbing her forehead. “Can we not start this lecture again, Mom? Please. It’s too early for drama.”
“Lecture?” her mother repeated, incredulous. “Anne, you’re barely holding yourself together! You’ve changed. You used to be kind, respectful—”
“Mom—”
“Don’t you ‘Mom’ me!” Her mother pointed the spoon at her, trembling slightly from rage. “You used to be a sweet girl! What happened to you, Anne? Ever since—”
Anne cut in, voice tight and bitter. “Ever since you and Dad split, right? Go ahead. Say it. Blame the divorce for everything wrong with me.”
Mrs. Reynolds froze, spoon midair, eyes glistening for just a second before her face hardened again.
Anne stood abruptly, her voice trembling with anger that had nowhere to go. “You think yelling fixes anything? You and Dad broke up, and now I’m the one who’s supposed to hold it all together? I didn’t ask for any of this!”
Her mother’s tone dropped, low and warning. “Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” Anne shouted, her emotions spilling over. “You’ll throw another plate? Go ahead!”
Her mother opened her mouth to respond, but Anne moved faster. She lifted her glass and hurled it at the floor. It shattered, whiskey splattering across the tiles. The sound echoed through the house — sharp, final.
For a long moment, the only sound was the low hiss of the stove.
Her mother’s chest rose and fell rapidly. Her lips trembled before she finally exploded.
“I have had it with you!” she shouted, pointing toward the hallway. “If you hate it here so much, why don’t you go stay with your father? Since he’s the only one you seem to respect!”
Anne’s voice cracked. “Maybe I will! At least he doesn’t treat me like a child!”
“Oh, please!” her mother threw her hands up. “Your father can barely manage his own life, let alone yours!”
Anne’s throat burned as she snapped back, “You know what? I didn’t beg you to give birth to me! I didn’t beg to be here!”
The room went dead silent.
Mrs. Reynolds just stood there, eyes wide, breath catching in her throat. The spoon slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a dull clatter.
The smell of burnt eggs filled the silence.
When she finally spoke, her voice was eerily calm. “That’s it. I’m done, Anne.”
Anne frowned, defiance faltering. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mrs. Reynolds clenched her jaw, her patience wearing thin.
“Anne, I’m warning you,” she said, voice trembling with anger. “If you don’t stop behaving like this, I’m going to send you to your grandmother’s. Maybe she can straighten you out!”
Anne froze, glass still in her hand, then turned slowly to face her mother.
“You dare not, Mom,” she said, her tone low, dangerous.
“Oh, don’t test me, Anne,” her mother fired back, stepping closer. “You know I can, and I will if you push me.”
Anne let out a harsh laugh. “Whatever. Fuck you, Mom.”
The room went silent. Mrs. Reynolds blinked, disbelief flashing across her face before her expression hardened into pure fury.
“What did you just say to me?” she demanded, her voice shaking.
Anne didn’t flinch this time. “You heard me.”
Her mother’s eyes darted toward the counter. Without thinking, she grabbed the rolling pin she’d been using to roll the batter. Her grip tightened, knuckles whitening. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again!” she shouted, lifting it slightly as if to fling it.
Anne’s eyes widened — and the moment the rolling pin swung forward, she ducked. It missed her leg by inches and clattered against the cabinet with a dull thud.
“Jesus, Mom!” Anne yelled, stumbling back. Then she turned and bolted down the hallway, her anklet jingling wildly as she ran. She slammed her bedroom door shut and locked it with shaking hands.
From the other side, her mother’s furious voice broke through. “You think you can talk to me that way and just walk off?!”
“Fuck you!” Anne screamed, her voice cracking. “Fuck you, fuck Dad, fuck everyone in this damn house!”
The words echoed through the silence that followed — harsh, heavy, final.
Anne pressed her back against the door, chest heaving, then slowly slid down until she was sitting on the floor.
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she blinked them back, her jaw set stubbornly.
After a long moment, she crawled onto her bed, burying her face into the sheets.
