Isabel’s POV
I feel the frustration bubbling inside me as I stand in the small, cramped kitchen with my parents.
The morning light filters through the worn-out curtains, casting a soft glow on the old wooden table where my mother, Celyn, was packing up her cleaning tools.
I can't stand sitting around anymore, feeling useless while everyone else is busy working.
Joining her might just be an escape route for me.
I tilt my head to the side.
“I’m coming with you,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, but determination clear.
“No, you can’t,” My Mom says, not letting her eyes meet mine.
I knew she would say no. She never liked me going cleaning with her. I wonder why.
I was little when I cried to follow her one time, and she agreed because I was too persistent.
The memory of
