His Obsession: His PA

The very day the House Changed, was the day the hospital room smelled like harsh antiseptic and sad endings. I noticed it before I noticed that my father wasn’t breathing anymore, his eyes stared cold, empty and lifeless. The machine beside his bed released a long, flat sound, thin, merciless and the nurse reached forward with the kind of calm that comes from repetition. She turned it off as if silencing a nuisance instead of announcing the end of my whole word. “No,” I whispered, my heart heavy with pain and agony. The word came out so wrong. Very Small and Powerless. My father lay still, his skin pale against the white sheets, his chest unmoving. I had been holding his hand for hours, afraid that if I let go, something irreversible would happen, and I was right. It happened. “Miss West,” the doctor said gently, already stepping back, already finished with us. “I’m so sorry.” But sorry didn’t bring him back. It never could. Sorry didn’t explain how a man who had laughed with me over burnt toast two days ago was now a body in a bed few feet away from me. I pressed my forehead against his cold knuckles and finally let myself break. He was gone, he was never coming back and that’s the harsh reality. The drive home was silent. Until... “ Uhh...I have mascara stains on my dress from all the crying I’ve been doing”. My stepmother sat in the front seat, back straight, lips pressed together like she was holding something in. My stepsister scrolled through her phone beside her, long manicured nails tapping the screen as messages poured in, pouting after complaining. So sorry for your loss. Stay strong. You’re incredible. And, No one looked back at me, no one asked if I was okay or anything. Grief, I learned that day, was something to be managed not shared. When the car pulled into the driveway, the house loomed larger than it ever had before. Too neat. Too quiet. Too ready, full of him and his memories. This house had only ever been kind to me because my father insisted on it. And now he was gone it feels empty, silent, threatening. The funeral happened three days later. Three days of hushed conversations that stopped when I entered a room. Three days of my stepmother disappearing behind closed doors and my stepsister practicing solemn expressions in the mirror with red lipstick. I wore black. Not the elegant kind. Just something plain. Something that didn’t draw attention not like I got any in the first place. Standing beside the casket, I felt hollowed out. My chest ached like something vital had been carved from it, left jagged and exposed. Pain, that’s what I feel. People came and went. But he should have stayed, he promised. They spoke to my stepmother first. “She’s so strong,” someone whispered. They hugged my stepsister next. “She’ll go far. Hayes Paradise is lucky to have her.” And me, I stood there, invisible, watching my father’s life reduced to polite sentences and borrowed grief. Do they even care?. When the last guest left and the house returned to its pristine stillness, I followed my stepmother inside with a something like a question hanging in the air. That was when she said it. “You’ll be moving out of that room.” The words landed without warning. Like a bomb. I paused halfway up the stairs. “What?...why?” She stood at the bottom, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “Your sister needs the space. Her career is demanding. She requires a proper environment.” I stared at her, disbelief swelling into anger. “That’s my room.” She smiled then. Not kindly. Not warmly. Just sinister. “Your father allowed sentiment, Amelia. I don’t. You know that” Something hot twisted in my chest. “That room was his gift to me,” I said, my voice trembling but steady. “I’m not moving.” My stepsister laughed softly from the couch. “You’re being dramatic. It’s just a room.” “No,” I snapped my blood boiling, “It’s not just a room, it is mine” My stepmother’s eyes darkened it became vile, “Stop being so selfish, think about your sister, after all your father favoured you more..plus this is my house now” Selfish?, The word sliced through me. “Our house you mean,” I corrected. “And I’m not leaving my room not for anything” The silence that followed was heavy, very heavy and Dangerous. She stepped closer, finger raised, voice sharp. “You don’t get to make demands anymore, I’m in charge now. The sooner you understand, the better for you” Her hand moved suddenly, so fast you’ll almost miss it, I reacted on instinct. I grabbed her wrist, “ Don’t you dare...” The room erupted. “How dare you!” she screamed, yanking her hand back theatrically. “Did you see that? She tried to attack me!” I froze. “I didn’t...” “She’s unstable mom, I told you,” Carla said quickly, already standing, concern painted perfectly across her face. “She’s been acting very strange since her dear Daddy died.” Grief becomes a weapon, Gas lighting wrapped in sympathy and mockery. “I’m not crazy,” I said, shaking. “I just don’t want to be erased, why do you want to take my room from me... there’s... there’s so many me..” My stepmother sighed loudly cutting me off, “Always making everything about yourself, not on my watch though so get your stuff and move out” That night, while I showered, they moved my things. I stepped out to find boxes stacked carelessly in the hallway my clothes, my books, fragments of my life treated like clutter, Something cold settled deep in my chest it was like a dull ache but then it became painful. I didn’t sleep. The guest room felt wrong too quiet, too unfamiliar. The walls didn’t know me. The bed didn’t creak the way mine did. There weren’t any tiny stick man drawings of my dad and I, or nail polish stains from Amanda and I girly session. At some point past midnight, the grief shifted, It hardened into something deeper, more feral, Don’t let them shrink you, Millie. Sitting up slowly, I twist my neck to the side stopping when a satisfying crack is heard. No. I wasn’t doing this, Bare feet against cold marble, heart pounding, I walked back down the hallway to my room. They had stripped it bare. My bed gone. My desk gone. Even the framed photo of my father and me at the beach gone. Something sharp and furious burned behind my eyes. I turned around and went back, one after the other, I started moving my things. Box by box. I dragged my clothes through the hallway, arms burning, jaw clenched. I carried my books like they were sacred. I rebuilt my space piece by piece, refusing to cry, refusing to stop. When I finished, I stood in the centre of the room, heaving slightly out of breath. This was still mine. The scream came minutes later, piercing through my ears like a bullet. “What do you think you’re doing you witch..?!” My stepmother stood in the doorway, robe pulled tight, fury blazing. My stepsister appeared behind her phone raised, recording. “I moved back Step mother” I said calmly. “This is my room and do not forget it.” “You selfish girl!” she snapped. “After everything your sister has going for her..” “I lost my father,” I cut in. “This room is the last thing he gave me. And yeah call me selfish, doesn’t make you any different” My stepsister scoffed. “You’re obsessed, and acting unhinged, it’s very very unhealthy.” Something snapped. “You don’t get to talk about him,” I said, stepping forward. “You waited for him to die. Yeah call me crazy too I don’t care but you are not taking my room from me..” My stepmother staggered back dramatically. “She’s violent!” I shoved her hand away not hard, not cruel but enough to make a point. “She attacked me!” she cried. “She needs help,” my stepsister added softly. I stared at them, bored already. They weren’t afraid of me, They were afraid I wouldn’t submit. In the end, they didn’t force me out. They did something worse. They let me stay but treated me like a threat. Like a problem. Like something that needed to be watched. Lying in my bed ..I finally cried. Not because I was weak. But because everything I thought was solid had turned conditional. Love. Space. Grief. All was negotiable now. And beneath the sorrow and the rage, something unfamiliar settled in my chest. Not fear. Defiance. They thought losing my father would make me pliable. Easier to move. Easier to silence but They were wrong. I didn’t know it yet, but the war for my life had already begun. And I had no intention of losing.