Chapter 29 #3
He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I gestured vaguely down the hall. “Where do you think I sleep when I stay here?”
“In the spare room,” he said automatically.
“The office,” I corrected.
His mouth opened, then closed again. “It’s both.”
“No,” I said. “It’s your office that I borrow.”
Hilary shifted beside him. “It’s not that bad—”
“It’s a broken air mattress,” I snapped, turning on her again. “On the floor. Next to a desk you never bother to move back. With a lamp that doesn’t work half the time.”
Dad looked genuinely startled. “I was going to replace it.”
“You’ve been ‘going to’ for weeks,” I said. “You know what it feels like, lying there at night? Like I’m temporary. Like I could be folded up and put away the moment you need the space.”
“That’s not fair,” he said weakly.
“Isn’t it?” I asked. “Because I line my things up in a corner so I don’t get in the way. I keep my bag zipped so it doesn’t look messy. I wake up early so I’m not here when you need to work. I make myself small.”
Hilary crossed her arms. “No one asked you to do that.”
“Because you didn’t have to,” I said, my voice broken. The tears were finally streaming down my face and I didn’t even waste my time wiping them away.
Dad stared at the floor.
I felt something hot and aching rise in my chest. “So what’s going to happen now?” I asked. “Are you going to turn it into a nursery?”
Hilary stiffened.
Dad blinked. “What?”
“The office,” I said. “You’ll need a room for the baby. Are you planning to move the desk out, or—what? Will the crib just go where my air mattress is?”
“That’s not—” Dad started, then faltered. “We haven’t talked about that yet.”
Hilary spoke before he could recover. “We assumed the baby would need the second bedroom, yes.”
My throat tightened. “So where do I go?”
“You don’t live here,” Hilary said, too quickly. Too smoothly.
The words landed like a slap.
Dad whipped around to look at her. “Hil—”
“It’s just practical,” she continued, undeterred. “You’re with your mom most of the time. This isn’t really your home.”
I felt strangely calm. Numb. Like something essential had finally clicked into place.
“Say it again,” I said quietly.
Hilary’s lips pressed together. “You have a home. This just isn’t it.”
Dad looked panicked now. “That’s not what she meant.”
“It is exactly what she meant,” I said. “And honestly? Thank you for saying it out loud.”
“That’s not fair to her,” Dad said, gesturing at Hilary. “She’s trying.”
“No,” I said. “She’s being honest. You’re the one who keeps pretending this is something else.”
Hilary’s eyes flashed and she wrapped her arms around her stomach. “I am pregnant. My priority is my child.”
“And I was his child first,” I said, turning back to Dad. “Or do priorities expire?”
“That’s not how it works,” he said, his voice strained. “There’s room for both of you.”
“Where?” I asked, arms flailing at my sides to gesture to the room. “Show me.”
Hilary scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re being dramatic.”
I laughed softly. “You replaced the throw pillows before you replaced my bed.”
That finally shut her up.
Dad looked like he’d been punched. “I didn’t realize—”
“You never do,” I said. “That’s the problem.”
He stepped toward me. “We can fix this. We’ll get you a proper bed. We’ll make the room nicer.”
“For how long?” I asked. “Until the baby needs more space? Until I’m inconvenient?”
“That’s not what this is about,” Hilary said sharply. “You’re sixteen. You’re almost grown.”
“You’re right. I’m old enough to know that other people’s boyfriends and husbands are off limits—a lesson you still haven’t learned.”
“Imogen!” Dad snapped. It was the angriest I’d ever heard him be with me and yet, somehow, I still didn’t care. I couldn’t care anymore.
“You don’t get to be angry about this,” I said. “You made this choice.”
“I didn’t choose—”
“You chose every time you didn’t show up,” I said. “Every time you told me to understand. Every time you let me sleep on the floor and told yourself it was fine because I didn’t complain. I’m done making myself smaller. You don’t have to worry about where I’ll sleep anymore.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, fear creeping into his voice.
“It means I won’t be staying here,” I said. “Not as a guest. Not as a compromise.”
He swallowed hard. “You’re my daughter.”
“I know,” I said. “I just wish you acted like it.”
I grabbed my jacket from the chair and headed for the door. This time, I didn’t bother putting my boots on carefully. I shoved my feet into them, clumsy and shaking.
Behind me, Dad said, desperate now, “We’ll figure this out. I promise. We’ll do better. I’ll do better.”
I paused with my hand on the doorknob.
“I hope you do,” I said, without turning around. “But don’t expect me to keep waiting while you figure it out. I just hope for their sake that in sixteen years, you don’t replace this family too.”
The door closed softly behind me, but the sound echoed anyway—final and unmistakable. Then I opened the door and stepped out into the cold, the shout I’d been holding back finally breaking free as a sob.