Wrong Number Right choices

“Zee! Look at these floors!” My mother didn’t offer a hug. Instead, she stood at the end of the hallway, a plastic spray bottle of orange-scented cleaner gripped like a weapon and a microfiber cloth in the other hand. She pointed the bottle at my feet. “I just waxed this morning. Wipe your shoes. Better yet, take them off. I don’t need you tracking the ashes of your old life across my clean house.” Then she laughed and hi fived my dad “Hey princess don’t mind your mom but that was funny come on in honey” “Hey daddy” I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. It was an accident. But the fire chief’s report said what it said, and the internet had already made its verdict, and now I was back to sleeping in my old room . Sucks to be me . “I’m on it, Mom,” I muttered, kicking off my designer heels—one of the ones I was able to take with what was left of me. They used to mean something. “And don’t leave your bags in the hall,” she called, already scrubbing a phantom smudge on the wall. “This isn’t a hotel. You’re a guest by courtesy, Zee. Your father and I have a routine, and your… situation is disruptive. I’ve had to explain to Mrs. Gable next door why a car was dumping charred luggage on our lawn.” “It’s not charred,” I lied, dragging the suitcase toward the stairs. “It’s vintage.” “It smells like a barbecue.” My dad joked and my mom sighed. “I don’t understand how a girl with a prime-time career and a perfect Man ends up burning her life to the ground. Literally. Do you know what the bridge club is saying? Do you know how embarrassing it is to have a daughter coming back home because she can’t handle a situation?” Using her hand to put it in quote “He was f*****g with my co worker , Mom! Her mouth was—” “Language, Zee!” She slapped the microfiber cloth against the banister. “I don’t care what that tramp was doing. A smart woman secures the ring before she has a tantrum. I saw the police report. Arson is not a coping mechanism.” “It wasn’t arson. It was—” “A fire you set. Intentionally. In your apartment.” She turned back to her cleaning, her movements sharp and aggressive. “At least have the decency to call it what it was.” I marched up the stairs, each step a small betrayal to my knees, and slammed the door. I threw myself on the bed. “Zee, honey! Could you help me with the trash?” Her voice cut through the drywall, shrieking. “And don’t use the good trash bags! Use the grocery sacks! We need to be economical now that you’re not drawing a salary!” I stared at the ceiling fighting back tears. “Coming, Mom!” I yelled back, shoving myself off the bed. My mom had not always been the wicked witch of the west; she was once sweet to me . It all started the night I burned down my apartment and moved back home. And before you call me a crazy b***h, trust me, it’s not like that. I’ve been known to always overreact to things anyway, but this was very valid. I had everything. My life was all put together. I had the best job working for BBP—Best Beauty Part magazine, the best and biggest magazine company in the country. I was pretty popular, and people looked out for my piece in the magazine. Even strangers knew my face. And f**k it, I loved my job. I loved it. And then there was Trey —My boyfriend . A sweet, caring, and loving man. The type that opens the door for you and brings flowers and chocolates whenever my period starts. He tracks it for me. He takes me to the best dinners. He ties my shoes for me. You know, the whole perfect boyfriend s**t. And oooh, I had a big house. Oh my God, it was a modern house, and I spent a fortune on my apartment. I’m a sucker for a really good-looking apartment. It was everything. I could feel people watching me and wanting to be me. I was living the life. The best part? I was cleaning one day and I saw a ring fall out of Trey’s pocket. “Oh my God, he was gonna propose,” I said to myself. Everything was perfect. I had everything and on top of it I was getting married soon OMG! But like all good things, they don’t last. Trey was a tech dude. Yeah, he was cool, but also a nerd. He has his own high-end tech company that makes apps. And apps need designing. At the time, they had just lost their graphics designer. So I introduced my coworker—who happens to be a designer—to my boyfriend so they could work together. Big mistake, I shouldn’t have. I walked in on both of them naked, and this b***h’s mouth is on my boyfriend’s d**k. And the worse part? He seemed to be having the time of his life. I wanted to attack her, but I just left. And he didn’t run after me. I guess he really did like her lips on his d**k. When I got home, I spread the letters across the kitchen table. His handwriting stared back at me from every envelope. I poured vodka, then poured again. The bottle was half empty before I realized I’d been drinking straight from it. The fire started small—I held the first letter over the gas stove and watched the corners curl. The paper blackened, and I fed it the next one, then the next, watching them twist and disappear. My hands shook. I was laughing. Or maybe crying. Hard to tell anymore. The flames caught faster than I expected. I woke to the smell of burning plastic and the worst headache of my life. Orange light was already climbing the walls. The smoke alarm screamed. Then sirens. Then boots on my floor and hands grabbing me, pulling me out, the cold night air hitting my face. A week later, I was back in my old room in Seattle. Same twin bed from high school. Same glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. But I’m alive and I got this and really I don’t give a f**k. Okay, maybe I give a f**k a little . You know what? Fine. I give a f**k, give lots of f***s actually I’m a p********e of feelings .