The holiday morning dragged itself across Grace's little bedroom. Sunlight slipped through the curtains in thin stripes, landing on her desk where notebooks lay open, half-filled. She'd been sitting there for over an hour, but most of what she'd done was doodle in the margins or start sentences she never finished.
Her pen kept stalling mid-word because her mind wasn't on homework at all—it was still stuck on the festival.
It had only been yesterday, but already it felt like something she had to hold tight to before it faded. The lanterns swaying, Sophia pulling her into laughter, Ryan hamming it up like always. And Andrew—his quiet words, "You did great today."
That thought warmed her chest in a way she wasn't used to. She never really got words like that. Encouraging, soft, like someone actually saw her.
She let herself smile, twirling the pen slowly. For a second, the house didn't feel so heavy. For a second, she could almost believe she was just a normal girl with homework and friends.
"Grace!"
Her father's voice tore through the walls, sharp and loud.
She jumped, the pen slipping from her fingers and clattering onto the floor.
"Yes?" she called back, too softly.
"Come downstairs!"
Her stomach tightened. She pushed her chair back and stood, smoothing her skirt with shaky hands as she went down the stairs. Each step creaked under her, the air getting heavier with every one.
Her father was waiting in the living room, a laundry basket on the floor, clothes spilling out. His jaw was locked tight, eyes hard.
"Didn't I tell you to make sure the laundry was dry?" he snapped, lifting a shirt and shaking it. "Look at this—still damp. You call this finished?"
Grace's eyes dropped, her nails pressing into her palms. "I—I thought it was dry. I'll fix it."
"Thought?" His voice cracked like a whip. "Stop with excuses. Do it right the first time. You're not a child anymore."
His words stung, but she only nodded. "Yes, Father."
She grabbed the basket and carried it outside, the damp smell rising up. He muttered something behind her, but she couldn't make it out.
The backyard sunlight was almost blinding after the heaviness inside. She started rehanging everything carefully this time, pulling the fabric taut, pinching the corners just so. Her hands moved with the kind of precision that came less from habit and more from fear.
She remembered when things weren't like this.
When her mom was alive, her dad used to laugh—loud, warm, filling the whole house. He used to hum when Mom sang in the kitchen, their voices overlapping like they belonged together. He'd ruffle Grace's hair, call her "sunshine" when she pouted.
Her mom softened everything. Even fights turned playful with her around. She loved flowers, kept them everywhere in the house. She smelled of lavender. Always gentle. Always light. Her dad used to look at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
And then she was gone.
Grace had been seven, but she remembered every piece too clearly—the hospital trips, her mom's hand growing weaker, colder, even as she tried to smile. The machines beeping, louder than Grace's own heartbeat, the day everything stopped.
And her father's voice.
It was her fault.
She'd been curled in the hallway, knees hugged to her chest, when she overheard him talking to the doctor. She hadn't meant to listen. But the words sliced through the walls.
It was her fault.
At first she didn't know who he meant. Mom? Grace herself? But the mix of anger and grief in his voice sank deep into her small chest, and from that day on the words never left.
Her fault.
She never told him she'd heard it. She never asked what he meant. But after that, something inside her closed. She stopped talking to him the way she used to. Stopped risking too much. Afraid if she said the wrong thing, if she messed up, if she simply existed too loudly—then yes, it would be her fault again.
She blinked hard as the last shirt went up, her vision blurring. She forced herself to breathe, straighten. She couldn't let him see her cry.
Inside, she tried to slip back upstairs, but his voice caught her again.
"Grace, the dishes. They're still in the sink. Didn't you clean them last night?"
Her steps faltered. "I—I thought I did. Maybe I missed—"
"Always excuses," he barked. "Do you think life forgives mistakes? Do you think anyone's going to clean up after you? Don't be useless."
That word hit like a slap. Useless.
She bit her lip, nodding quickly, and hurried to the kitchen. Only a couple plates and cups sat in the sink, but to him, that was enough. Enough to be failure. She scrubbed quickly, the hot water stinging her hands.
It wasn't just chores. It was constant. If she came home late, he interrogated her. If her grades slipped, he compared her. If she didn't greet him fast enough, he glared like she'd insulted him.
And sometimes, it went further.
When she was twelve, she broke one of her mother's vases. She'd been dusting, knocked it off the shelf by accident. It shattered everywhere.
Her dad had stormed in, saw the pieces, and his face turned red.
"Do you know what this was?" His voice shook the walls. "This was hers. The last thing she touched. And you broke it."
Grace had dropped to the floor, hands shaking as she tried to gather the shards. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Sorry doesn't fix it! You ruin everything!"
The words gutted her. Her hands bled on the glass, but she didn't cry out. She just kept whispering "I'm sorry" over and over, desperate for it to undo something that couldn't be undone.
After that, she moved like a ghost in the house. Always careful, always quiet, always anticipating.
Now, as she dried the dishes, the years weighed down on her. This wasn't a home. It was a cage padded with memories she couldn't escape.
And yet, sometimes, she still caught flickers of the man he used to be—the man her mother loved, the one who once called her sunshine. Those flickers hurt the most, because they reminded her he could be kind. He just wasn't anymore. Maybe he blamed her mother. Maybe himself. Maybe Grace. She'd never know.
She slid the last dish into the cupboard and retreated to her room, closing the door as gently as she could.
Her desk sat waiting, homework untouched. Her eyes drifted instead to the framed photo of her mom on the shelf.
Her mom's smile glowed from behind the glass. Grace reached up, fingers brushing the frame.
"Mom," she whispered, her voice catching. "I don't know if it really was my fault. But he said it. And it's like… I can't get away from it. I try to do everything right, but it's never enough. I wish you were here. I wish you could tell me what to do."
Tears slipped down her face, silent, unrelenting.
But then her mind pulled her back to yesterday—the festival lights, Sophia's laugh, Ryan's antics, Andrew's steady gaze when he told her she did great.
It was such a small thing. And yet it felt like the first light she'd seen in years.
She wiped her face, breathing shakily. She couldn't change her dad. She couldn't bring her mom back. But maybe she could hold on to that little spark.
Because even the smallest spark was still light. And sometimes, that was enough to push back the dark.