chapter 4
1218 Words
Chapter 4
The sun had barely set when Laura appeared at Betty’s door. She didn’t knock. Just walked in like she still owned the right.
Betty sat on the bed, folding the Saint Agnes uniform with stiff hands. She didn’t look up.
Laura’s heels clicked against the hardwood floor, then stopped.
“You’ve made quite the impression already,” her mother said coolly.
“Sorry,” Betty muttered. “Didn’t realize saying ‘good morning’ to a maid’s daughter was grounds for scandal.”
Laura ignored the sarcasm. “This house is not the place for... forming unnecessary relationships. You’re here to finish school. That’s it.”
Betty stood, anger bubbling in her chest. “You mean I’m here because the law forced you.”
Laura’s jaw tensed. “Let’s not start.”
“No, let’s.” Betty took a step closer. “You left me with a drunk. For twelve years.”
“I did what I had to.”
“You disappeared,” Betty snapped. “You replaced me with a new family. New house. New life. And now I’m just... the obligation.”
Laura looked at her then — really looked — and for a second, something flickered in her eyes. Not guilt. Not warmth. Just exhaustion.
“I gave you a roof. Clothes. School. That’s more than I had.”
Betty shook her head, voice trembling. “That’s not what I needed. I needed a mother.”
Silence stretched between them.
Laura’s expression hardened again. “Life doesn’t give us what we need. You’ll learn that.”
She turned to leave, but Betty’s voice stopped her cold.
“Does he even know I exist? Your new husband?”
Laura paused at the door. “Don’t speak of things you don’t understand.”
“Does Chris know you abandoned your daughter?”
Laura didn’t turn. “Stay out of things that don’t concern you, Betty.”
And with that, she walked out, leaving the door open — like she wanted the whole house to hear the silence that followed.
Betty sat back down, chest heaving. The room suddenly felt smaller. Tighter.
She didn’t cry. She’d run out of tears years ago.
But for the first time, she realized something:
She wasn’t just surviving in this house.
She was planning her escape.
She found him in the hallway again.
Same place, same posture — leaning against the wall like it held up more than just his body. His arms were crossed, and his jaw worked like he was chewing on thoughts too bitter to swallow.
“You always eavesdrop?” Betty asked, voice raw but steady.
Chris looked at her, eyes unreadable. “You always scream at your mother?”
“Only when she deserves it.”
A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips, but it vanished quickly. He nodded once, slow. “She had that one coming.”
Betty folded her arms. “So... you do talk.”
Chris shrugged. “When it’s worth it.”
They stood in silence, the weight of the earlier fight still hanging in the air between them.
Betty studied him. He had Bennett’s cheekbones, his expression was hard. Controlled. Like someone who never let the world in far enough to hurt him.
His eyes flashed. “Look, don’t mistake my silence for cruelty. I just… keep my distance. Safer that way.”
“Safer for who?”
He didn’t answer.
Betty leaned back against the opposite wall. “You know what’s funny? We’re probably the only two people in this house who feel like strangers.”
Chris didn’t move, but something in his shoulders shifted. Less guarded. More human.
“You’re not wrong,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean we’re allies either.”
Betty nodded slowly. “Fine by me.”
He turned to leave but paused at the edge of the hallway.
“For what it’s worth,” he said without looking back, “I’m sorry about your dad.”
Betty blinked, caught off guard. “Thanks.”
Chris disappeared around the corner before she could say anything else.
She stood there alone for a moment, the quiet somehow softer than before.
Maybe she wasn’t entirely alone.
Not yet.
She didn't go back to her room.
Not right away.
Instead, Betty wandered down the hall, past the heavy portraits of people she didn’t know and didn’t care to. Everything in this house felt borrowed—like a museum of someone else’s memories. The rugs were too soft, the lighting too warm, the silence too loud.
She ended up in the kitchen.
It was spotless, untouched. A tray of scones sat on the counter like an offering no one had dared to take. She didn’t touch them either. Just leaned on the island and exhaled.
Voices drifted from the garden. Laughter. Her mother’s, unmistakably high and charming, like everything hadn’t just fallen apart two hours ago.
Betty closed her eyes.
She didn’t know what stung more—her mother’s ability to pretend, or the fact that Betty couldn’t.
A soft thump startled her.
Chris again. This time with a book in his hand and earphones slung around his neck like armor.
They stared at each other.
“What, are you haunting me now?” she asked.
“I was here first,” he said, heading straight to the fridge. “You’re haunting me.”
She almost smiled. Almost.
He pulled out a bottle of water, twisted the cap with one hand. “You don’t like it here.”
It wasn’t a question.
Betty leaned on the counter. “Would you, if your whole life got tossed into a blender and someone else decided how it should look now?”
Chris sipped. “That’s kind of how life works.”
“Yeah, well… it sucks.”
He nodded like he agreed but didn’t have the energy to say it out loud.
Then: “She doesn’t hate you, you know. Your mom.”
Betty laughed—short, sharp. “She left me. For most of my life. And now she wants to act like I should be grateful.”
Chris’s jaw tightened. “You don’t owe her anything.”
Their eyes locked again. And this time, there was something like understanding between them. Not forgiveness. Not even friendship. Just recognition.
Two broken pieces, not from the same puzzle, but cracked in similar ways.
“You read?” she asked, nodding at the book.
Chris glanced at it. “Sometimes. Helps me sleep.”
“What is it?”
He hesitated, then turned the cover so she could see. The Stranger by Albert Camus.
She raised an eyebrow. “Of course it is.”
He smirked, more openly this time. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she said, pushing off the counter. “Just... explains a lot.”
She walked past him, pausing briefly at the door.
“I meant it,” he said.
She turned. “Meant what?”
“I’m sorry. About your dad. That stuff doesn’t just... go away.”
Something in his voice cracked at the edges. Just a little.
Betty nodded. “No. It doesn’t.”
And then she left him in the kitchen, the silence settling again—but this time, it didn’t feel quite so empty.
- Writer
