Chapter 1
The House With Glass Windows
Ema was 14, and she lived in a house that looked like it belonged in a magazine.
White walls, tall glass windows, a driveway that fit three cars, and a garden where the gardener came every Tuesday and Friday. Her parents called it “the home we worked for.” Everyone else in Los Angeles called it “the perfect family house.”
Inside that house were four people who didn’t match the picture.
There was Tunde, Ema’s older brother. 17. Captain of the debate team, 6’1, always in a pressed shirt even on Saturdays. He had the kind of smile parents loved at PTA meetings.
Then there was Zara, Ema’s little sister. 5. Loud, sticky hands, obsessed with drawing cats with crowns. She believed the house was a castle and she was the princess.
And then there was Ema.
Ema loved two things: reading novels until her eyes burned, and writing stories in a black notebook she kept under her pillow. Romance, mystery, fantasy — if it had pages, she wanted it. If it was blank, she wanted to fill it.
Her parents were rich. That meant weekend brunches in Beverly Hills, new phones every year, and drivers who knew all the shortcuts down the 405. It also meant “don’t embarrass us,” “smile for the photos,” and “your brother got first place again.”
From the outside, it was perfect.
The birthday parties with balloon arches in the backyard.
The family photos where everyone wore matching white on the beach.
The way her mom said “We’re so blessed” at the country club.
From the inside, it felt different.
At dinner, Tunde talked about his awards and Dad nodded like he was watching highlights. Zara tried to show a drawing and Mom said “Later, sweetie, brother’s speaking.” Ema asked if she could join the writing workshop downtown and Dad said “Focus on your grades first. Writing doesn’t pay bills.”
Nobody yelled. Nobody threw things. That’s what made it confusing.
The house was quiet in the way glass is quiet — beautiful, but if you press too hard, it cracks.
On Thursday night, Ema sat by her window with her notebook and a novel she’d borrowed from the library. Rain was tapping the glass. Zara was asleep down the hall with a crayon still in her hand. Tunde was on a call, practicing his speech for tomorrow.
Ema wrote one line:
_Not everyone who is perfect from the outside is perfect on the inside._
She underlined it twice.
She didn’t know it yet, but tomorrow something would happen that would make her write ten more pages. Something that would show her that perfect houses can still feel lonely. And that sometimes the girl who reads all the stories has to start writing her own to get out.
