I wasn’t sure why I’d come back to these steps. The last time I was here, it was Lucia’s birthday party and I’d stormed out after an argument with my sister.
Isabel and I clashed all the time. We were like flint and steel, guaranteed to start a spark that could burn down an entire house instead of keeping us warm.
Lucia’s toys were everywhere: a soccer ball half-covered in snow, a fire truck that was way too bright for the grayish-white ground, and a doll missing one arm, just lying there forgotten.
When I got to the bottom of the steps, I looked up at the house. I could see my breath clouding in front of me as I stood there in the silence. It felt as if the house was watching me, holding its breath, wondering if I’d ever knock.
It was hard to gain the courage. Isabel was never happy to see me—not since Mama got sick and I bailed. Coming here was hard, like my two worlds colliding.
This house held memories of who I once was. The girl I was proud of. I couldn’t walk in there now, I’d be tainting the space.
I could still see us, me and Isa, two little girls running barefoot on this same porch, chasing fireflies until Mama called us inside. Isabel had been smaller then. Quieter. She’d followed me everywhere, her chubby hands clutching the back of my shirt as if I were the only thing keeping her steady.
She didn’t follow me now.
Finally, after my staring contest with the damn house, I climbed the steps hesitantly.
I was closer now, and could feel my heart pounding in my ears.
How would I face her? Why was I choosing now, of all times, to try? Right after I’d missed Thanksgiving. And Christmas. And New Year’s. Months without a single visit or a phone call. Isabel didn’t have to say it—I knew what she thought of me.
Finally, I knocked.
There was a part of me that wished she wouldn’t open the door. That she’d assume it was me who was knocking and decideI wasn’t worth the time or the energy. But she wouldn’t, because she was Isabel, and caring was her kryptonite.
The door opened, and Isa stood on the other side of it, shocked.
“Hi,” I said, plastering a gentle smile on my face.
She looked like she wanted to say something, but she chose to ignore me and close the door in my face instead. The slam came fast, but I was faster. Hell, I expected it.
I shoved my foot in the door, swearing under my breath as pain shot through my toes. “W-wait,” I sputtered. “Just—wait.”
“What the hell do you want, Vale? You don’t get to just show up here.”
“I know,” I said, crossing my arms tightly across my chest to keep the shakes at bay. “I know, okay? I just ... Can we talk?”
“No. It’s late.”
“Please.”
Her eyes settled on something behind me. I could practically hear the whistle and see the smoke funneling through her ears as she thought of what to do.
Finally, she let out a long breath and stepped back, pulling the door open just enough for me to slip inside.
I kicked the snow off my boots and stood awkwardly near the door with my coat still buttoned up. I wasn’t sure how long I was going to stay. I wasn’t sure why I was even here.
I hesitated in the entryway and took the opportunity to look around. It was homey. A pile of shoes sat by the door, Lucia’s tiny sneakers lined up next to a pair of men’s work boots. The familiar smell of lemon hit my nose almost immediately, just like it always did. It reminded me of those spring-cleaning days where Mama would turn our house inside out. Isa and I would call her crazy.
I stepped further in, turning to face my sister. “Is everyone asleep?”
“Lucia’s in bed,” Isabel said, closing the door behind me. “And Daniel’s out cold. He’s up at five for work.” She walked past me, heading into the kitchen. “You want a drink?” she called over her shoulder. “I opened a bottle of wine earlier, at dinner.”
A drink.
I slid my hand into my coat pocket. In there was my first chip. Thirty days sober. The plastic felt cheap and flimsy in my hand, like it would snap in two if I pressed too hard.
I wanted a drink, and technically, I could now I had the proof to give to Max. But there was a part of me—a small, stubborn part—that didn’t want to break the streak. I’d actually avoided even a sip, and somehow, that mattered. Not because of Max or his damn conditions, but because of me.
