Whispers of Revenge

Ashes

დ Rosalie დ

The house was colder inside than it had looked from the porch. Not cold in a clean way. This cold had settled into the walls and furniture, into the faded curtains and worn floorboards, into every corner left untouched for too long. It smelled faintly of old dust, weak tea, and something medicinal. I stepped inside, and my mother moved back to let me pass.

“Your room is still the same,” she said quietly. I nearly laughed. Of all the things she could have said, that was what she chose. I set my bag down beside the door and looked around the narrow hallway. The wallpaper peeled at the seams. The trim had yellowed. A draft slipped across the floor. Somewhere deeper in the house, a clock ticked too loudly.

“It doesn’t look the same,” I remarked softly. My mother closed the door with more care than strength and leaned against it for a second afterward. Up close, the damage the illness had done to her was worse. Her skin looked too thin. Her hands trembled when she lowered them. Even the cardigan hanging from her shoulders looked too heavy for her. Still, none of that softened me.

Not yet.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” she murmured. I had to admit that I was a bit surprised by that. After all, her caretaker had called me. I assumed my mother had been behind it.

“That’s obvious,” her mouth tightened, but she didn’t argue. She only turned and led me toward the kitchen at the back of the house. My heels clicked softly on the wood. The whole place felt too quiet. The kitchen looked worse than the hallway. The table was damaged. One of the chairs had been repaired badly enough that I noticed it right away. The sink held two plates, a chipped mug, and a pan soaking in cloudy water. A thin stack of mail sat near the fruit bowl. A kettle sat on the stove. Nothing else did. I looked at her. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes,” I may not have seen or heard from my mother in ten years, but I immediately picked up on the lie. My eyes dropped to the counter. A packet of crackers sat open beside a half-empty tin of soup. That was all. “You should sit down,” she said. I stayed where I was. She lowered herself carefully into one of the chairs, and for a second, I hated that I noticed how much effort it took.

“How bad is it?” I asked. She looked toward the window instead of at me.

“The treatments stopped helping,”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” silence filled the kitchen. Then she folded her hands together on the table and stared at them.

“The doctor says it has spread,” I held her gaze for a moment, then looked away.

“When were you going to tell me?” I asked.

“I didn’t want to drag you back here,” the bitterness rose instantly.

“That would have been more convincing if you hadn’t waited until someone else had to send the message for you,” I spat out and immediately regretted the harshness of my words. My mother flinched. It was such a small movement, barely there, but I saw it.

“I knew you were busy,” she whispered.

“Busy?” I repeated, and once again, my voice came out sharper than I intended, but I admitted to myself that I just didn’t care enough to soften it. I looked around the kitchen and slowly shook my head. “I don’t get it. I have been sending money here for years. I have made sure your bills were covered. I have made sure you have enough to live on. And somehow I walk in and find this...” I wave my arm around and frown. “So no, Mother, busy is not the word I would use,” her fingers tightened together.

“Rosalie—”

“Where did it go?” I asked, and her head lifted too fast. I saw it in her eyes. A small flash that I didn’t quite understand.

“Things are expensive,” she said, and I merely stared at her. Then at the warped cabinets. The stained ceiling above the sink. The weak groceries. The old cardigan. The cracked linoleum near the pantry.

“Not this expensive, and again, I have been sending money for years,” she didn’t say a word. No explanation. No excuses. Just silence. The radiator beside the window clanged once and then fell silent. I hated the sound and the stale air. I hated the way the house pressed in around me as if the last ten years had never happened. I moved away from the table and opened the fridge. Almost empty. Milk. Butter. A bottle of water. Half a carton of eggs. Medication boxes crowded into one shelf where food should have been. I shut it again. “You need groceries,”

“I manage,”

“That’s not managing,” I snapped in frustration, and her shoulders stiffened.

“I didn’t ask you to judge the house the second you walked in,”

“No. You just let me keep believing you were fine,” my mother pushed herself up from the table, slower than before, and crossed to the sink. Her breathing had changed, just enough for me to hear the strain. Just how sick was she?

“Can we discuss this later? I’m tired,”

“No. We need to talk about this now,” I urged. She gripped the edge of the sink before she slowly faced me.

“Rosalie,” suddenly, without warning, I froze. Not because of my mother. But because something in the house shifted. A floorboard creaked down the hall. The wind pushed faintly against the back window. The smell of damp wood thickened for half a second, and suddenly my skin felt too tight. My chest locked, and the kitchen blurred at the edges, replaced by the quick, ugly sensation of being trapped inside walls that remembered too much. It wasn’t a flashback. It was as if my body remembered something before my mind could stop it. I stepped back to catch my breath. “Are you all right?” my mother asked.

“I’m fine,” I immediately answered. She gazed at me curiously. I knew she didn’t believe me, but I just didn’t care. Instead of dwelling on it, I picked up the stack of mail from the counter before she could say anything else. Her expression changed immediately. Another mistake. The top envelope was a final notice printed in red across the front. Underneath it sat an electricity bill, a pharmacy statement, and two letters from the hospital. I looked up. “You said the bills were covered,”

“They were,”

“Then what the hell is this?” I demanded.

“It’s complicated,” I let out a short, humorless laugh.

“That usually means someone is lying,” I accused. The little bit of color drained from her face. “Explain it to me,” she didn’t say a word. But as I continued to watch her, I saw the flash of fear in her eyes. She wasn’t afraid of me. No. She was afraid of something else. I knew then that she wasn’t going to tell me anything. So, instead of pushing her, I went to my room and shut the door behind me. And as I stood in the dimness, I felt that same old pressure crawling under my skin. The room looked almost the same. The same narrow bed. the same dresser. The same curtains. Ten years, and this house was still trying to pull me backward. I set my bag on the bed and stared at the stack of mail in my hands. Something was very wrong.

Not just with the house.

Not just with my mother.

With everything.

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