Clara sat at the kitchen table, absentmindedly picking at the peeling edge of the cheap laminate surface. The air in the house was thick with tension, the kind that had settled in long ago and never really left. The only sounds were the hum of the fridge and the occasional scrape of a spoon against a bowl—Mollie eating cereal at the counter, scrolling on her phone.

Their mom stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot with a tired, vacant expression. She looked like she hadn’t slept properly in days.

“Iris, stop crying,” Mollie said flatly, not even looking up.

Clara sighed, glancing at her youngest sister, who was wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. "What happened?"

"She told on me again," Mollie said, rolling her eyes. "Big shocker."

“She took my notebook!” Iris shot back, voice wobbly. “And I didn’t even—”

Their mom sighed dramatically and rubbed her temples. “For God’s sake, can you all just be quiet? I am so tired.”

Clara glanced at her mother, feeling that familiar frustration bubble up. "Then do something about it. Tell Mollie to give it back."

"I'm not getting involved in your drama," their mom muttered, voice dull. "Just work it out yourselves."

Clara clenched her jaw. Of course. Just like always. If they weren’t literally bleeding or dead, their mom wasn’t going to step in.

Iris sniffled, looking at Clara expectantly. She wanted her to fix it. She always wanted her to fix it.

Clara sighed. Fine. She turned to Mollie. "Give it back."

Mollie smirked. "Make me."

Their dad suddenly walked in, still staring at his phone. "Jesus, why is it always so damn loud in here?" he muttered, barely glancing up. "Every time I come in, someone's whining."

Clara stiffened.

Iris wiped her nose and spoke before she could stop herself. "Mollie stole my notebook."

"Good grief," their mom muttered from the stove.

Their dad scoffed, shaking his head. “Stop fighting." He said dismissively before leaving again.