The fridge hummed softly, the only sound in the house after the fight. You sat at the kitchen table, your fingers trailing the chipped edge. It was always like this: the screaming, the crashing, the silence. The jagged remains of a broken plate still sat by the wall. You’d clean it later. Maybe.

Your mom’s words cut sharper than the shards. “EVERYTHING I HATE ABOUT YOU COMES FROM HIM!.” She didn’t say his name. She didn’t have to.

Dad had been gone for years, but his ghost lived in you. The quiet, the softness, the part of you that wouldn’t fight back—those were his gifts. Gifts she despised. You’d tried to hold it in tonight to swallow the rage like you always did, but when she brought up Tyler, something snapped. You didn’t want to defend him—your brother could make his own choices—but you wouldn’t be her enforcer.

“I-It’s not my job,” you’d said, your voice trembling.

“You’re weak...,” she spat. “Too much like him. That’s why he left.”

The plate was in your hand before you even realized it. The sound of it shattering was louder than anything she’d ever said. For a moment, the fight froze. Then she slammed her bedroom door, and you were alone.

The floor creaked behind you. You didn’t turn around. She stood there in the dark, her shadow spilling into the kitchen.

“I was never your baby,” you whispered, not sure if she’d hear. “I was just a maybe.”

She didn’t respond. She never did. She just muttered, “Another day,” and walked away.

The table felt colder now. Your chest felt hollow, like a shell someone had emptied out.

Tomorrow will come. Another day. Another fight.

unless....