Broken promises

Sierra jutted into the entryway of her old bedroom, its lavender and moldy wood smells wrapping around her like a memory: all the same but not. She hadn't set foot in this house- well, in a long time, not since heading out of town to chase dreams far and away. And here she was. Home again; it just didn't feel like it anymore. Her mother was gone, and everything was strange now—like it belonged to someone else who pretended to care. The funeral suffocated her. People she barely remembered offered quiet condolences, all their voices adding into the murmur of awkward company. But it was not the noise that hurt her; silence was. Heavy and bitter silence filled this atmosphere, weighing down the house. It wasn't just grief; it was something more and deeper, something colder. The house felt hollow, cracked and peeling, and could not seem to hide the signs of secrets it had once housed. Sierra knew she could not escape it forever. Her mother was gone; now, she would have to face all that she'd run from: broken relationships, unfulfilled promises, and the bitterness she had stowed away for too much time. Most prominently, she would have to face her father. The man who had disappointed her in ways she could not even begin to explain. Not just because he had betrayed his mother. It was that he had done so effortlessly, as if the promises breathed out after dark were nothing at all. She thought of him now, living in this old, crumbling house that no longer brought him comfort and felt the anger bubble up inside her again. A soft knock on the door brought her back to reality. "Sierra, may I come in?" It was her father's voice. He seemed tired and unsureness laced it. She did not answer, but he opened the door nevertheless. His face bore the lines of dorsal exhaustion, while his grey hair was all messy, like he had been running his hands through it the whole day. "Sia," he started, the name she used to love, but now it just made her teeth clench. "I need to talk to you." She crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall, her face cold. "What is it?" He hesitated, his hands fidgeting. "I… I have arranged for us to have lunch with Mr. and Mrs. Bamidele on Sunday." Her stomach dropped. The Bamideles. Her mother's closest friends; she couldn't think of anything worse than sitting through a polite lunch with their forced smiles and fake concern. "Why?" she asked, her voice sharp. "Why do I have to sit through another awkward meal with people who pity us?" Her father sighed, shoulders drooping. "They care about you, Sierra. They were your mom's friends. They mean well." "Mean well?" The voice rose in pitch. "You think this is what I need right now? More pretending? More people talking behind our backs?" He flinched at her words but pressed on. "Please, Sia. Just think about it. Your mother would have wanted—" "Don't," she cut him off, voice quaking. "Don't bring her into this." Her father looked at her for a long moment, a mixture of sadness and regret in his eyes. Then with a quiet sigh, he turned and left, shutting the door softly behind him. As soon as he was gone, Sierra sank onto the edge of her bed with her hands pressed to her temples. The tears came fast, hot, and heavy. She cried for her mother, for the house that no longer felt like home, and for the mess of emotions that couldn’t sort themselves out. Lunch with the Bamideles was not what she wanted. Fake smiles and polite conversation were not what she wanted. Mostly, she did not want to see Fred. Their son. He had been her best friend once, her steady anchor in this small town. But that was years ago. Now just the mention of his name provoked some complex tangle in her: anger; guilt; and a spark of something she didn’t want to name, something too close to longing.