The Facade

Chapter 3

The days passed slowly, each one settling into a rhythm Deborah didn’t entirely hate.

Classes weren’t overwhelming anymore. Students barely noticed her — which, honestly, was a relief. She was the new girl who sat quietly, did her work, answered when called on, and disappeared when the bell rang.

Except for Mia.

Mia never let her fade completely.

Every morning, she greeted Deborah with a small wave. During breaks, she made space for herself at whatever table she sat at. And when teachers assigned pair work, Mia somehow always ended up by her side. Jane appeared sometimes too, checking in politely before rushing off to her prefect duties.

Deborah didn’t call them friends — not yet — but they were something close.

At home, something else began to shift.

Sandra had stopped tiptoeing around her. The house didn’t feel like a glass museum anymore. And Deborah, almost without realising it, started responding.

One Tuesday afternoon, after a long day of classes, she stepped into the house and found Sandra chopping vegetables in the kitchen.

“Hi, Sandra,” Deborah said softly.

Sandra froze mid-chop. “Oh! Hi sweetheart,” she replied, surprised but pleased, trying not to show too much excitement. “How was school?”

“Fine.” Deborah slipped out of her shoes. “Just tired.”

“Alright. Dinner will be ready soon.”

Deborah nodded and headed upstairs, strangely lighter.

She showered, changed into her pyjamas, and came down again. She ate dinner quietly, said “goodnight” to both her dad and Sandra, and climbed back up before anyone could push the moment too far. It wasn’t trust, not yet — but it was something like peace. Her mom had been right. “Be civil,” she’d told her. “You’re allowed to heal, even in a new place.”

Deborah wasn’t healing. Not really.

But she was… trying.

Days passed like that — school, quiet meals, small steps forward.

Until the night everything cracked.

..........

Deborah woke up around 3 a.m., thirsty. The house was dark and silent, the kind of quiet that felt thick. She slipped on her slides, picked up her phone to light her path, and stepped into the hallway. She heard a low murmur of voices, sharp and urgent. She squinted at the dark room, heart thudding, recognising the tones immediately.

“…I’ve been planning this for years, Sandra. This isn’t about her, it’s about the investment. We can’t back out now,” Garrison’s voice was cold, precise.

Deborah froze, stomach twisting. This wasn’t right.

“…She’s your daughter! You can’t just—” Sandra’s voice rose, panicked but pleading.

Deborah moved quietly, phone in hand, creeping toward the kitchen to listen closer. A floorboard creaked beneath her step. Both voices stopped.

They turned. And there she was, shadowed in the doorway, wide-eyed, the faint glow of her phone illuminating her face.

“Deborah… what did you hear?” Garrison’s tone was sharp, measured.

Deborah stepped forward, her voice trembling but growing stronger:

"Everything. And I can’t believe this. You’re talking about me like I’m a property, like I’m some business deal you can sign off!”

Sandra moved quickly, hands raised.

“Deborah, calm down! You don’t unders—”

“No, stop it!” Deborah cut her off. “I trusted you! I was starting to… to care. And this is what you do?”

Garrison’s face darkened, his voice rising.

“Deborah, you will not speak to us like that!”

Deborah laughed bitterly, anger rolling off her in waves.

“You don’t get it. You don’t get anything! You can’t just play with my life like I’m some object. I’m your daughter for crying out loud! Why would you even think of this?”

Sandra stepped closer, trying to soften the space between them.

“Debbie… please, just calm down. Let’s talk—”

Deborah’s voice cut through, fierce.

“No. You don’t get to call me that! She turned towards her dad, "You think I'm just something you can use for publicity? Well, guess what, jokes on you because I won't do it. I won't let you use me like I'm some chattel or investment. Whatever it is you want to use me for, I won't accept it."

Garrison’s voice tightened, more controlled but still forceful.

“Deborah, go to your room. Now.”

Deborah’s eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line.

“Oh… I should go to my room? Fine. Gladly,” she said, her voice icy. “Because it’s very clear. You don’t get it. You can’t own me. You don’t own me.”

Sandra, softer, almost pleading now, followed her step by step.

“Debbie… please… just calm down."

Deborah’s voice cut through again, sharp and final.

“Go away. Just leave me alone!”

Garrison stepped back, chest tight, but his voice carried authority.

“You will mind what you’re saying and go to your room, Deborah. Now.”

Deborah’s small smirk was full of defiance as she walked past them, up the stairs, slamming her door softly behind her. Her heart hammered. She collapsed onto the floor, back against the door, arms around her knees.

Downstairs, voices carried faintly. Sandra’s tone was angry. She came to the front of her room,

“Deborah… please open the door. Let me at least explain—”

Deborah pressed her hands over her ears.

“Leave. I don’t want to hear anything. I don’t want to see you. Just go!”

The murmurs faded. Silence settled.

She picked up her phone, staring at the screen. No calls. No messages. Music became her refuge. Headphones over her ears, she let the songs carry her anger, confusion, and heartbreak away. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks, mixing with the soft beats of the music.

Hours passed, or maybe only minutes. She couldn’t tell. Exhaustion finally dragged her into a restless sleep, still curled on the floor.