11th January July,20XX—Italy ,Rome.

“Andrew.”

My father’s voice cuts through the room, deep and controlled. He never raises it. He doesn’t have to.

I lift my head slowly. I’m sitting straight, hands on my knees like I was taught. Ten-year-olds are supposed to know how to behave. At least, that’s what he always says.

He stands beside her.

“This is your new stepmother.”

I look at her.

I don’t say anything. I never do anymore.

She has long black wavy hair, falling over her shoulders like it’s too heavy for her to care. Her eyes are dark. Not sharp like my father’s, not soft either. Just… watching. People always think I don’t notice things, but I do. I notice everything.

She looks like her.

Not exactly. But close enough.

He always does that.

My chest tightens a little, but I don’t move. Don’t react. That’s important.

All my stepmothers were the same in the beginning. Quiet smiles. Careful movements. Acting nice. Acting patient. Then later they start telling me what to do. How to sit. How to speak. How to breathe. Like I’m something broken they need to fix.

I hate them.

I don’t show it anymore. I learned that the hard way.

My father’s hand rests on her shoulder. It’s not gentle. It’s claiming.

“She’s staying with us,” *he continues, like he’s talking about a deal already signed. *“You will treat her with respect.”

I nod once.

“Yes, sir.”