Chapter 4
I woke up on the black sofa with both halves of my book still pressed against my chest. My socks had slipped down a little and my dress was wrinkled. Morning light was coming through the big windows behind me, gray and thin, not like the warm lamp light from the night before. The city outside didn't look like lights anymore, just buildings and a pale sky.
Dad was in the kitchen. I could hear the pan and smell butter. He was still in his white shirt from last night but the sleeves were pushed up and his hair looked like he hadn't slept. He was making scrambled eggs the way he always did, moving the pan slow so they wouldn't get brown. He glanced over at me and tried to smile.
"Hey, sweet pea," he said quietly. "You okay to sit up?"
I nodded but I didn't let go of the book. My eyes felt swollen.
Vanessa came out of the bedroom then, and that's when I realized it wasn't just Dad's apartment anymore.
She was wearing the same beige blouse and trousers from last night. Her hair was brushed straight and she had her slippers on, the flat beige ones she always left by the bed. She went straight to the bathroom and I heard the cabinet open. Her toothbrush was in the holder next to Dad's, her face wash was lined up on the shelf, her perfume bottle on the counter. In the bedroom doorway I could see her clothes hanging right next to Dad's shirts in the closet. Not just one or two things. A whole row. Her sweaters folded on the shelf, her shoes lined under.
In the main room, her laptop bag was on Dad's desk now, half-zipped, sitting next to his silver laptop. There were two coffee mugs by the sink. One said Chicago. The other was hers, cream-colored with a gold rim.
Dad had told me six months ago that Vanessa was going to stay with us for a while. He'd said it would be nice to have someone else in the apartment, that she would be like family. I was five then. I hadn't understood what that meant until that morning, seeing how everything had shifted to make room for her.
Dad plated the eggs and toast and carried them to the small kitchen island. Vanessa poured herself coffee. She didn't look at me on the sofa. Dad lowered his voice but the apartment was so quiet I heard every word.
He said, "We need to talk about last night."
Vanessa kept her back to me, stirring her coffee. "I already told you what happened. She wouldn't listen. I asked her to put that thing away and she ignored me."
"So you tore it?" Dad's voice was flat and hushed. "Vanessa, it's a kid's book."
"It wasn't about the book," she said. "It was about respect. I asked her three times to clean up for dinner and she just sat there staring at me. She was being disrespectful in our home."
Our home. She said it like she owned the words.
Dad glanced at me. I was sitting very still, holding the torn halves. He stepped closer to the island so his voice dropped even more. "She's six. You don't rip her things to teach her a lesson."
Vanessa set her spoon down hard against the mug. "You're saying I was wrong to discipline her? David, if you don't back me up on this, she's never going to listen to me. She needs to understand I have a say here too."
I thought Dad would say something right away but he didn't. He just looked down at the eggs getting cold on the plates. His jaw was tight the way it got when he was trying not to argue.
Vanessa turned then and finally looked at me. Her expression wasn't angry anymore. It was calm and firm, like a teacher.
"Sophie," she said, "I think you owe me an apology for how you acted last night."
I stared at her. My hands tightened around the book. The torn edges were soft and bent from where I'd held them all night.
I had thought when I woke up that Dad would fix it. That Vanessa would say sorry for tearing it. That Dad would tell her she couldn't do that again. Instead she was standing in our kitchen in her beige blouse, with her clothes in our closet and her mug on our counter, waiting for me to say sorry to her.
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I didn't understand how that could be right. I had just been reading on the sofa. I hadn't been bad. But the way she said it made it sound like I had done something wrong, and that Dad wasn't sure whose side he was on.
I looked at Dad. His eyes were on me, and I could see he realized it too — that this wasn't just about a torn book anymore. It was about who got to decide what was allowed in our home, and where I fit in it.
