But Mum was a phantom in her own house, a whisper of scent drifting down the corridor, a name on postcards from countries we'd never been. She liked the concept of us, I believe, but not the actuality. Her wings could not bear the weight of four children. She was constantly absent.
I don’t know why I stepped into the room that night. Maybe I thought I could stop it, like I could freeze their anger with my voice.
“Please stop fighting,” I said, small and trembling, the words barely carrying over the storm of their argument. “Bae doesn’t understand and Mummy I don’t eithe-”
She turned sharply as if she’d forgotten I existed. Her hand flew back—not aimed at me, just an impulsive motion—but it caught my shoulder. I stumbled, my foot catching the edge of the rug, and then gravity betrayed me.
The fall was slow and fast all at once, the kind of moment that stretches and snaps in a breath. I hit the glass table, and it shattered beneath me, the shards biting into my arm like teeth. For a moment, the world stopped.
Then came the sound of my father’s voice, hollowed by panic. “Wynter!”
I heard Beck before I saw her, her footsteps pounding down the stairs like a war drum. She froze when she reached the room, her wide eyes darting between me, the blood pooling beneath my elbow, and Mom.
“What did you do?” she whispered, her voice trembling with rage. Then she snapped.
“Don’t you dare touch him again!” Beck’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, fierce and unyielding. I had never seen her like that—her face flushed, her fists clenched, her whole body vibrating with fury. She looked like a lioness ready to tear someone apart.
Mum reached for me, her hands shaking. “Wynter, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Enough,” Dad’s voice came low and cold, silencing her. He knelt beside me, his hands steady as he checked the wound. “You’ve never been a mother to them. You only care about yourself.”
She tried to speak, but her words crumbled into sobs, her tears falling faster than she could catch them. She looked so small in that moment, like she was shrinking beneath the weight of her guilt.
“Pack your things,” appa said, his voice flat, empty. “Go. You can’t stay here.”
She cried harder, but she didn’t argue. She didn’t fight for us.
Beck cleaned up the glass while Dad carried me to the car. The hospital was cold and bright, the sting of the stitches a dull ache compared to the heaviness in my chest. It was then that I knew that my sister would always protect me, that perhaps she always had.
Beck and I, we had this silent understanding of sorts you see,I protect you, you protect them. She would look after me, and in turn I would watch over Bae and Jiwon, and appa well he would do his best to fill the gap left by our mother and carry us all on his own.
That was the last night she lived with us.
I got stitches on my elbow and a scar that still catches the light when I skate. Sometimes, when I look at it, I think about howfragile things are—glass, family, love. And how easily they can shatter.
Flashback summer 13”
Wynter 15, Cahya, 15
The first time Cahya noticed the scar on my elbow, we were sitting in the corner booth at Trudy’s Diner, the one with the peeling red vinyl seats that stuck to your legs on hot days. Outside, the summer sun was melting over Waverly Peak, painting the mountains gold. Inside, the smell of fries and vanilla milkshakes wrapped around us like a warm blanket.
We’d just finished splitting a plate of fries when Cahya’s eyes flicked to my arm. I’d pushed up my sleeves to escape the heat, and the scar was there, pale and thin against my skin.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at it like it was the most interesting thing he’d seen all day.
I froze, my hand halfway to my milkshake. “It’s nothing,” I said quickly, looking down at the scar. “I just… fell. A long time ago.”
Cahya tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing like he didn’t believe me. “It doesn’t look like nothing. Did something bad happen to you?”
His voice was softer now, careful, like he thought I might break if he pressed too hard. I swallowed, the memory of that night flashing through my mind—the glass shattering, the sharp sting, my dad’s voice, Beck’s face. I didn’t want to talk about it.
But before I could say anything, Cahya grinned. “Wait! I know what it is—it’s a battle scar!”
“A… what?” I said, confused.
“A battle scar!” he repeated, bouncing in his seat. “Like from a fight. You’re, like, a superhero or something! All the best heroes have scars, you know. It’s, like, part of their origin story.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s not a battle scar. I tripped and fell on a table.”
