Jeniah
T he phone is cold against my ear, its weight pressing my heart down like a heavy stone. It takes more courage to place this call than to go outside and check myself. I tap in the numbers and wait. It doesn’t take long.
“911, what is your emergency?”
I swallow hard. “I think someone tried to get into my house. The motion lights came on outside, and I thought I heard someone rattling the knob.”
There’s a pause. A harsh intake of breath before the operator’s skepticism creeps through the line. “Ma’am, it’s your third call this week regarding suspicious activity. Are you sure it’s not just the wind or maybe… neighborhood kids? Sometimes, those sensors are too low and react to small animals. I’ve even heard of a field mouse…”
“Unless a mouse can rattle my doorknob, then I need an officer to do his job and check out my neighborhood.” She hisses at my reproach. But I don’t have time for her attitude. She can’t dismiss me like some paranoid girl running from shadows. I pull the curtain back a sliver and peek out the window. The light is off now, and I can’t see a thing. I wipe my hand across my forehead and press it against the back door. My eyes burn, either from tears or weariness. I don’t know or care. I’m so tired. I haven’t slept in days. Maybe I am paranoid. But who wouldn’t be—I’m the girl whose father stole everyone’s savings and ended up in prison—leaving me alone in a house too big for one.
“Alright, we’ll send someone to check it out. Do you have a safe place to stay until they arrive?”
My breath hitches. Safe? Who could feel safe when eyes follow you everywhere you go? Thank God the media isn’t still camping outside. The last reporter, hoping for an interview, finally stopped stalking me and drove away. Coincidentally, around the same time, the motion lights turned wacky.
“No. I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’ll stay here.”
“Okay, I’ll dispatch a unit. Someone will be there in a few minutes.”
“Thank you.”
I hang up and pad over the side of the couch. The hardwood floor is cool against my bare feet. I wait. “Meow.” Milo jumps up to my side, rubbing against my leg. Purring until I kneel to scratch behind his ears.
“Who would want to scare us, huh?” I murmur to him, losing myself in the soft fur gliding under my fingers. “Kids? I’m not crazy, I swear.”
He stares at me with wide, innocent eyes. Does he understand? How could he? He’s just a cat, the only creature in this house that doesn’t judge. I lean into his warmth and let his purr calm me.
I wait in the living room. I hardly ever come in here. In the last days of Mama’s illness, it served as her bedroom. I look at the corner her hospital bed had occupied because she was too weak to go up the stairs. Father wanted to put her in a nursing home. But she said if she went, she would go in the house she’d grown up in—with her things around her. I almost smile, remembering Father’s reaction. He’d said it wasn’t dignified. But death wasn’t dignified—mama answered.
Is his cell dignified?
Sadness creeps in and thickens the air. I left high school to care for Mama. My mother had struggled to breathe with that cruel disease—sarcoidosis. I spent those years half a parent—replacing laughter with errands, chatting about the latest gossip with hospital visits and medication schedules. Even with the changes in decor, this room is now a painful reminder of everything I lost. She passed away just under a year ago. The dispatchers on the other end of these calls don’t know what it’s like to lose a whole world in a slow drip of an I.V.
My father’s absence is worse. It was the brutal rip of a band-aid ripping off skin. Gone with a vicious Yank when he was arrested three months ago. A single rip, and just like that, he was gone. He cut a deal, took a plea bargain, and in a blink, my childhood—our family—became just me.
I wrap my arms around myself when my eyes burn and my head throbs. I can’t cry. Not now. Not ever.
Milo hops up into my lap, his weight grounding me. He gazes up at me with those knowing eyes, and I can’t help but chuckle softly. I know he’s saying, “You still have me.”
The motion lights outside flicker, and my stomach knots. When everything crashed down, the neighborhood turned against us. No one likes a thief. He didn’t just steal money—he stole trust and friendships. Now, they look at our house with scorn and suspicion. He hurt so many people—ruined corporations and non-profits. He had no mercy. I think he lost his humanity watching my mother die. I get it. Because I wanted to fight the world, too.
None of that matters now. I have this house, the only thing the feds left me. “Milo, what can I do?” I ask him as I stroke his back. He kneads my thigh, massaging the tension roiling under my skin. It’s his way of telling me not to worry. He’s right. I have a decent job working online as a book editor. If I squint just right, my life almost sounds… normal. Just isolated as hell. Maybe one day, I’ll write some of the stories I made up to occupy my mother. I did love writing. Maybe one day, this house can be my refuge and my escape.
But right now, it feels more like a prison.
I rub under his chin when Milo settles into my lap, pleased with himself. I need to ignore my nosy neighbors; their raised brows and scornful looks start getting out of the house. Get a friend besides my cat. I could join the library’s book club. The librarian always invites me from behind the desk. Encouraging me to step into the world of stories once again.
What’s stopping me? A squeak comes from the front door before the bell rings, and my heart races again. Milo jumps down, tail twitching, his wide eyes locked on the door. “Not helping, buddy,” I mutter.
Milo paces at my feet. Correctly reading the room. “Stay here.” I approach it like I would a ticking bomb. “Hello?” I call out waiting to see if anyone responds.
Silence blankets the house.
My mind races, picturing the worst. What if a gang of kids is ready to egg the place or throw stones through the windows? Seconds feel like minutes. Maybe I should call 911 again. They’ll think I’m crazy, but I don’t care.
“Hello,” a voice booms from outside as I inch closer. “Miss Reynolds.” I freeze. It’s a man’s voice.
“Who is it?”
“Officer Holmes, ma’am. I’m with the police. We got a report of a possible break-in.”
I open the door, my heart thumping loudly in my chest. The officer standing there looks tall, broad, and stern. Stoic, yet kindness shines in his dark eyes. I recognize the look.
Pity.
“Are you alright?” he asks in a soft voice.
“No,” I say, too exhausted to hold my tongue. It’s been a long time since I felt alright.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
I take in a deep, labored breath. “I thought I heard someone trying to get in. The motion lights went off.”
“Well, we checked the yard and both sides of the house—all clear. My partner is circling the block now.” He holds my gaze. “This is the third call of the week, you know.” He says it slowly, as if he’s handling the same time bomb.
“I know. I… I just… I was scared.”
“I understand. It’s an unsettling situation.” He examines the yard before focusing back on me. “But it’s like that old story about the boy who cried wolf? Even if you’re not trying to get attention—”
My brows shoot up, and I grind my teeth. “Is that what you guys think? That I’m just making this up.” I point my hand out the window. “For the last three months, I’ve had more attention,” I sneer the word. “More than I asked for or wanted. I’m thrilled people are finally leaving me alone. Why would I invite attention? Especially the attention of the same people who took my father away?”
Milo wanders to my side, winding between my legs. Calming me. I scratch his ears while the officer wipes his hand around the back of his now red neck. “I said I understand. I do. I’m not suggesting you’re lying.” I barely stop myself from clawing his eyes out. “I’m only recommending that you make sure there is a threat before you call. You don’t want the police dragging their feet when you call.” I roll my eyes. “Right?”
I cross my arms across my chest before I grumble, “right.”
“To hell with them,” I whisper, pushing my despair aside. I refuse to dwell in self-pity.
Another officer joins him when I walk him to the porch. “Find anything?”
Officer Holmes asks him. He responds with an annoyed glare aimed at me. “Nothing. Just like last time—like every time.”
Holmes shoots me a look, which I interpret as, “See what I mean?”
I huff but swallow down the rest of my agitation. I lock the door after apologizing for wasting their time—again. Should I have apologized? No. But that’s what good girls do. We swallow our anger. We follow their rules. When we irritate a man, we apologize. I’m so damn tired of being the good girl. Tired of always obeying. Sick of meekly following when I know damn well I’m qualified to lead.
I want to run away from the house I own. Start a new life. Where I’ll wear bold, bright colors, play my music too loud, and drag my toes through the sand. I’ll meet a bad boy. Maybe a biker who reeks of trouble but who wants me desperately. I’ll grind on him in the middle of a crowded dance floor. Not giving a damn about who’s watching. When he can’t take it anymore, he’ll wrap my legs around his waist and carry me to the bathroom, taking the v-card I’ve never had a chance to give anyone. A card I can’t wait to get rid of.
My father would lose his mind at my outrageous behavior. I will not care, apologize, or say sorry. I will live the stories I’ve created in my mind. Fantasies I’ve only been able to dream about…
Returning to the couch, I look at the silver-framed pictures around me. My mother’s portrait was painted long before she was sick. She’d received the painting as a gift when she graduated from college. She’s only a year older than I am now. The artist captured the sparkle in her eyes and the gleam in her smile. Brave, stubborn, hopeful—so different from her only child.
She’s why I’ll never do any of those things. Because how can I walk away from her and the memories that linger in every room? The good, the bad and… My eyes water.
And the love.
I won’t give in to the damn waiting to break. I may not ever leave this house. But I refuse to live like a hermit anymore. The news vans are gone, and there’s no reason I can’t explore the city.
Tomorrow, I’ll visit the library. It’s not exactly a world trip, but it’s a start.
I cuddle Milo close, letting the soothing warmth remind me of my strength. I don’t just endure—I survive. Milo drifts off to sleep, his gentle purring the only sound in the room. I close my eyes, letting my heavy lids shutter at last.
I can take this dip in the water. I will not falter. I will not drown.
Tomorrow…