The guest bedroom smelled of lavender and old books—sterile, tidy, curated. The walls were painted a pale, impersonal shade, the kind chosen not for comfort but neutrality. It was the kind of room designed for a guest, not a daughter. There were no photographs. No remnants of childhood. No memories.
This wasn't a bedroom.
It was storage for someone no one expected to stay.
Adeline stood in the doorway, her cheek still burning from her father's hand. She hadn't said another word to either of them. She didn't have to. The silence between them had spoken clearly: You are not welcome.
In one corner, a few cardboard boxes were stacked by the far wall, one left half-open. The closet hung with clothes—hers, supposedly—but they felt foreign, as if they belonged to someone she'd never met. On the top shelf, a dusty teddy bear slumped sideways, and something deep in her chest twisted.
She stepped inside, fingertips grazing the dresser, the curtain cord, the brass knobs of the nightstand—trying to make contact with something real.
And then she saw it.
Half-buried beneath old sketchbooks and wrapped in a scarf, as if someone meant to hide it, was a leather-bound journal.
She sat down slowly on the edge of the bed and opened it.
The handwriting was hers. Neat. Loopy. A little dramatic. She read the first entry—and felt her throat close:
"Mom died today. They say she went peacefully, but I don't think death ever feels peaceful to a ten-year-old. I feel like a house with no walls."
She turned pages quickly now, frantic, as though the answers to everything were tucked between the lines.
"Dad doesn't smile anymore. He says it's for the best. That we have to move on."
"He met someone. Her name is Julia. She wears pearls and smiles too much. I don't like the way she looks at me—like I'm something broken she's been asked to repair."
"He married her today. I thought about Mom's eyes. She used to call me her storm. Julia calls me 'that child.'"
The entries grew darker with each passing year.
"Hazel was born. I wanted to be a good sister. I even made her a crown from paper. But Julia wouldn't let me hold her. She said I was too rough. I wasn't."
"Hazel calls her 'Mommy.' She calls me 'Addy,' but only when Julia isn't around. When she is, she ignores me. I think she's learning that from her."
"I told Dad once how I felt. He said I needed to grow up. That Hazel was more sensitive. More lovable."
Adeline froze.
The words blurred on the page, glassed over by the tears she refused to let fall. It felt like reading someone else's grief—but each line echoed with a truth that pulsed in her blood.
She hadn't been forgotten. She'd been erased.
Not because she had left.
But because they had made room for someone else.
What stung the most wasn't even the cruelty.
It was how normal it had become for them.
She closed the diary gently, her fingers trembling.
In the dark reflection of the window, she saw only a stranger.
But somewhere beneath the weight of silence and memory, a spark caught flame.
She hadn't deserved any of it.
And she would no longer accept it.