The house was unusually quiet that night.
Angela stepped through the front door, her school bag still slung over one shoulder, cheeks flushed from the day's unexpected attention. Teachers had congratulated her. A few classmates — kids she barely knew — had approached her with quiet, stunned praise. Even the principal had nodded at her in the hallway.
She should have felt proud.
But something gnawed at her.
Her mother was already home — a rare thing.
She sat in the worn armchair in the living room, arms folded, TV humming quietly in the background.
Angela paused.
"You're home early," she said carefully.
Her mother didn't respond immediately. Her eyes were fixed on the screen — though Angela could tell she wasn't really watching it.
Then she spoke, her tone flat.
"Your teacher called. Said you read a poem today at school."
Angela's breath caught.
"Oh."
Her mother turned to face her. "They said it was about… home."
Angela's mouth went dry.
Her mother's voice grew sharper. "What exactly did you say?"
Angela hesitated. "It was… about me. My life. Things I've been through."
"You mean things we've been through?" Her mother's voice edged into anger. "Did you tell the whole school I'm a monster?"
"No!" Angela cried, heart pounding. "I didn't use your name. I didn't say anything that—"
"But they'll know," her mother snapped. "People talk. Teachers talk. Neighbors. You want pity? Is that it?"
Angela felt the sting of shame rise like fire in her throat. "No. I just—I needed to tell the truth. My truth."
Her mother stood abruptly, the chair creaking behind her. "Your truth? You think being a child means you understand truth?"
Angela flinched but didn't back away. Not this time.
"I didn't say it to hurt you."
"But you did."
Silence stretched between them like a fault line.
Angela blinked back the sudden sting in her eyes. "You weren't listening before. And now you're angry that someone else finally did."
Her mother looked stunned for a moment — as if Angela had slapped her. But then the anger returned like armor. "You don't know what I've been through," she said, voice low. "Don't pretend you do."
And with that, she turned and left the room, bedroom door slamming shut seconds later.
Angela stood alone in the dim living room.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry.
But instead, she walked to her room and closed the door quietly behind her.
Later that night, Gabriel messaged:
GABRIEL:
You okay?
ANGELA:
Not really. But I think I said what I needed to say.
There was a long pause.
Then:
GABRIEL:
Then that's enough. I'm proud of you. Still.
Angela stared at the screen. Her chest ached, but she smiled — just a little.
She placed her notebook on the windowsill, pages fluttering in the breeze like wings learning how to open.