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Chapter One
Lalissa’s POV.
The morning began like it always did, with the sharp sound of my foster sister, Billie’s laughter echoing down the hallway. She was already dressed in her pretty white shirt, black skirt and a matching black denim jacket, hair shining, and a backpack perfectly balanced over one shoulder. She moved with the kind of confidence that screamed that she believed the world existed just for her, and somehow, I couldn't blame her. She had it all.
“Mom!” she called, in a high pitched voice. “Hurry, I’m going to be late.”
I stayed on the kitchen counter, elbows propped, staring at the chipped enamel plate in front of me. My breakfast had gone cold hours ago, because I had to prepare Billie for school. I was burdened with picking her outfit every single day while she comes home everyday to tell her mum about how much compliment she gets about her fashion sense. It was my job to carry the plate, to refill her cup, to keep my hands busy while she shone in every space she walked into. Worse, we were agemates, but I had to be at her beck and call.
“Lalissa,” my foster mother, Lauretta called, appearing in the kitchen doorway. “Take her bag to the car, make sure she doesn’t get there before you. Hurry now.”
I obeyed silently, stepping over the dirty rugs that had been trampled down the hallway. This house was quite large, but it still felt crowded, colorful furnitures, beautiful wallpaper. I glanced at my favourite spot as I stepped out, the garden where my peace knew no bound. This place had been home long enough for me to know its every fault, and every imperfection, but as each day pased by, I realized I would never belong here, and my identity would never be with the Kent’s family.
Billie flung open the front door, her fashion on point, shoes polished, hair bouncing perfectly as she went. I dropped the bag in the car carefully, and she took her water bottle from me without a glance. “Run along,” she said, laughing .“The house chores needs some finishing.” The door slammed behind her, leaving me with the faint smell of her perfume and the echo of her laughter fading down the street.
I lingered for a moment, listening to the distant engine, feeling the hollow absence she left behind. Every morning reminded me how easy it was for some people to belong, to be wanted, while I existed as a shadow in someone else’s life.
Back inside, Lauretta handed me a list of chores. “Laundry, sweep the floors, scrub the counters, clean the bathroom, check the garden… don’t forget the weeds.” Her eyes flicked toward me. “Dont forget to clean up the mess Billie made in her room earlier. She’s going to be home, and I don’t want to hear a single complaint.”
I nodded against my wish but I didn't even have a choice. I tucked the paper into my pocket and let my eyes wander across the kitchen. Sunlight filtered through the window, dust beams dancing in the slanting rays. I started the chores almost immediately, with careful precision. The motions were all too familiar, and my brain switched into automatic mode in a comforting way. I scrubbed, swept and organized every part of the house. The tasks were to be completed without complaint or question. I had learned long ago that if you did your task well enough, and did it silently, you could slide away from scrutiny, and cruelty on some days.
Through the window, I caught glimpses of the old school I had attended last year, a building smaller, duller, and far less grand than the school Billie went to, Luxeville’s academy. Even so, I loved it quietly. Every worn out brick, dilapidated chairs was a place where I could exist in peace without constant reminders of me being a glorified maid. And still, I had longed for more, the choice to pick my outfits just like Billie, the vision to attend one of the best schools in the country, being the best lawyer.
Two days ago, my foster parents had reminded me that dreams like that were for someone else, and even my schooling in the former school would had to be stopped, and they couldn't afford it. They said my wishes for a better school, a better life, was too ambitious, and too much trouble. I nodded, said thank you anyway, and returned to my chores, because gratitude was the only way I could prove I wasn’t ungrateful. They expected me to appreciate them for even being able to tolerate me.
By late afternoon, the house was spotless. Counters gleamed, floors shone, the garden watered and weeds trimmed. I carried the empty watering can to the sink, careful not to spill a drop. The light through the window was softer now, warming the edges of the room in a very gentle way.
Billie came home, tossing her bag on the couch, humming a song I didn’t recognize. She didn’t notice me, nor acknowledge me. She never did. I exhaled, leaning against the counter, letting the quiet settle around me.
For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine a different life. One where I walked through the gates of a prestigious school, killing outfit, shoes polished, a backpack over my shoulder that wasn’t patched or worn like the one I used over the last two years. One where I wasn’t the shadow, nor the invisible helper who scrubbed floors without appreciation while others laughed. Lalissa Monroe, just me, not defined by the walls I lived in, not measured by the indifference of the people around me.
The thought lingered within me. I held it close, letting it warm the hollow spaces in my chest, because some small piece of hope was all I had. And for now, it was enough
Evening fell slowly, the sunlight fading to a soft, pale orange that barely touched the edges of the kitchen. I stacked the last of the clean dishes into the cupboard and wiped my hands on my worn jeans. The smell of Billie’s perfume lingered in the invading every corner I passed.
“You are being too sluggish,” Lauretta screamed at me from the living room, her voice carrying a mix of irritation and anger. “Go check the mailbox. Make sure the post hasn’t piled up again.”
I nodded silently, walking past the living room, careful not to step on the beautiful rug I had just washed. Outside, the wind was quite heavy, indicating it might rain, scattering leaves across the driveway. I pulled open the mailbox, sifting through bills and advertisements, my fingers brushing over a folded letter I had no right to open. It didn’t matter, the ritual of checking the mail was enough to keep my thoughts occupied.
Back inside, the clatter of cutlery on plates announced that Billie was hungry. She had a childish, annoying habit of beating the plates with her cultlery. She walked slowly into the kitchen, dropping her plate onto the counter, an indication for me to dish her food.
“Serve dinner quickly!” Lauretta yelled at me.
I carried the tray carefully to the dining, placing it in front of Billie and her mum as she giggled at something on her phone.
“You can leave,” Billie said, barely glancing at me. Her eyes were too focused on her phone, thumbs moving quickly over the screen.
I sighed softly, retreating to my own corner on the floor. I wasn't allowed to eat on the dining with them. My plate was cold, and I knew she would notice if I ate too much.
“Lalissa,” Billie said suddenly, her voice sharp, “how about my freshly squeezed orange juice I asked for in the morning. Drop your food immediately and tend to that.” She smirked, as if my existence was nothing more than a joke she was meant to play with.
“Yes, Billie,” I murmured, reaching for the pitcher from the freezed without looking up. I poured the juice carefully, watching the liquid ripple in the glass as if it reflected my own contained frustration.
Dinner passed in silence, punctuated only by the clinks of plates and Billie’s occasional commentary about her school day. She spoke of assignments and friends, of people who wanted to be in her clique and the ones who would never match up to her status. She talked about extracurricilar activities, and how she hates being forced to use the library. My stomach tightened. I had attended a small, underfunded school last year, one that barely had enough books for each student, let alone extracurriculars or fancy uniforms. And yet, in my heart, I had admired her school, her classmates, even the idea of her effortless belonging.
After dinner, my foster mother handed me a second list of tasks for the evening: sweep the floors again, tidy the living room, scrub the bathroom one more time, pick out Billie's outfit and prepare tomorrow’s breakfast. I accepted it silently, tucking the paper into my pocket, my hands trembling slightly from exhaustion.
Billie lounged on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling. “You know,” she said casually, “sometimes I wonder why you even try. Mom and Dad hardly notice you anyway. You should just… relax.”
I didn’t answer. Words had always been dangerous.
I retreated to the bathroom, scrubbing counters and faucets until my fingers ached. I paused for a moment, leaning over the sink, staring at my reflection in the massive mirror. The girl looking back at me was pale, tired, hair too messy from being constant unkempt, yet there was a still a spark in my eyes that refused to quench.
My mind drifted to the life I lived before now, how all of these started, and how things took a turn for the worse.
