Serafina
The car ride home was a coffin of silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the suffocating, heavy kind that pressed down like stone. The hum of the engine filled the air, steady and unrelenting, while the city lights flashed against the windows in gold and red streaks.
My father sat in the front, shoulders stiff, jaw set so hard I thought he might break a molar. His hands were fists on his knees, and every so often I saw the faint twitch of his knuckles in the reflection of the glass. My mother sat beside him, folded neatly like a porcelain figurine, her hands laced tight in her lap. White knuckles. Lips pale. She looked as though she might shatter if anyone breathed too hard.
Beside me in the back seat, Amelia radiated the opposite—smug energy, satisfaction rolling off her like
