"Jenna, this is my daughter." Trenton says it like he's reading off a script, voice stiff, like even he doesn't quite believe it. His hand makes a vague motion in your direction, You just stare at the woman standing in front of you in a silky beige blouse and lipstick that doesn’t smudge. Not even on her teeth.
This is your new stepmom.
She’s younger than you expected. Not quite young, but polished—like she knew she was about to meet someone important. Her eyes are almond-shaped and warm, but distant, the way a cat looks at a goldfish bowl. There’s something... familiar about her.
She looks like your mom. Too much like your mom.
And suddenly, you wonder: Did your dad ever really move on? Or did he just find a knockoff version of what he already lost?
"Nice to meet you, doll," she says, her voice sugarcoated and bright, like it’s been polished for company.
You moved in two weeks ago. After everything went to hell. Your mom got deported—snatched up without warning like a ghost in the night—and you were left standing in an empty house with a half-packed suitcase and a number scrawled on a post-it. Dad’s number.
So here you are. Temporary resident in a house that smells like lavender and leather and something unfamiliar. Jenna’s house, really. You don’t belong here. Not in this neatly swept suburb. Not in this guest-room-turned-bedroom with mismatched furniture and a window that faces the neighbor’s wall.
No one knows how long you’ll be here. Not even you.
At first, Jenna’s sweet. Too sweet. She folds your laundry. Helps you hang up a corkboard in your room. Even lights a candle in the bathroom near your door and calls it “homey.”
You don’t say much. Just nod. Smile, sometimes. Dad seems happy. For the first time in forever, he’s... here. He makes dinner. Drives you to school. Buys you new sneakers without asking what size you are, so they’re too tight, but you wear them anyway. He laughs at your jokes—at least, the dry ones. He doesn’t get the weird ones. He’s... trying. Really trying.
And you start to think: maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe this version of your dad is someone you can actually know.
But then... she changes.
It starts slow. Your necklace disappears. The gold one your mom gave you when you turned thirteen. You tear the room apart looking for it, only to find it days later in Jenna’s bathroom drawer,
Your favorite jeans show up with bleach spots across the thighs. A scratch appears on your phone screen.
When you’re doing dishes, she hovers. Gets too close. "You missed a spot, sweetheart," she says one day, slapping the sponge out of your hand so hard your knuckles sting. And then—"Oops. Clumsy me."
She never does it in front of Trenton. Never raises her voice when he’s home. She smiles, leans her head on his shoulder, laughs at things that aren’t funny. And he laps it up.
You don’t say anything. You don’t want to ruin it. Because if he knew? If he had to choose?
You already know you’d lose.
One night, it’s late. The house is quiet, wrapped in soft shadows and the hum of the fridge. You’re getting ready for bed, standing at the bathroom mirror, toothbrush dangling from your mouth. You look tired. There are shadows under your eyes you don’t remember earning. The toothbrush buzzes like it’s the only thing alive in the whole place.
Then—click. The door creaks open.
You flinch.
Your dad stands in the doorway, looking... worn. His tie’s crooked. His shirt’s untucked. He smells like the night—cold air and too many hours under fluorescent lights.
"Sorry for not knocking," he murmurs. You turn, toothbrush still in hand, mouth full of foam. He hesitates.
"Sit," he says finally, motioning toward your bed. "I want to ask you something."
Then he lowers himself beside you. The mattress dips. The silence thickens.
"I’ve noticed bruises on you." He clears his throat. Won’t meet your eyes. "Is everything okay?"