Chapter 5
The fight from the living room didn't end. It just moved into the hallway.
That night my stepmother stood at the end of the hall with her arms crossed and looked at the doors like she was counting them. There were only three. Mine, hers and my dad's, and the small one my stepsister had been using since they moved in. The cabin wasn't built for four people who didn't want to see each other.
I was coming out of the bathroom in socks and my gray sweatshirt when she stopped me. She didn't touch me. She just stepped enough to block the hall.
"We need to talk about rooms," she said. Her voice was low, like she didn't want my dad to hear yet but wanted me to hear clearly.
I didn't answer. I could hear the TV on low in the living room and my dad moving around by the stone fireplace.
"My daughter needs privacy," she said. "She's nine. She shouldn't have to hear a teenage boy walking past her door all night. She doesn't feel safe."
That word again. Safe.
My dad came into the hallway then. He had his hands in his pockets. He looked tired.
"What's going on?" he asked.
My stepmother turned to him. "I told you. She needs her own space. Real space. Not a closet with a bed. He has the bigger room and he's up at all hours. She hears the floorboards. She hears him in the hall."
I felt my face get hot. My room wasn't bigger by much, but it was at the end near the window and it had the desk where I did homework. I'd had it since I was seven, before the wood panels were even refinished.
"You're not taking his room," my dad said.
"I didn't say take his room," she said. "I said find a solution. He can sleep in the living room for a while. Or we put a partition up. Or he uses the back area by the utility room. It's temporary until we figure something permanent."
The living room was the only common area we had. That patterned rug was in the middle of it, the stone fireplace on one wall, the framed photos lined up on the mantel, the flat-screen above the couch. There was nowhere to hide in there. If I slept on the couch, everyone would walk past me to get to the kitchen. Everyone would hear me breathe.
My dad shook his head. "No. He's not sleeping on the couch. He's not sleeping in the garage or the laundry nook. His room stays his room. That's not temporary, that's telling him he doesn't live here."
My stepmother's mouth tightened. "So my daughter just has to deal with being uncomfortable in her own home?"
"This is his father's house," my dad said, quieter this time. "You heard me earlier. I'm not moving my son out of his bedroom so your daughter feels less awkward about a hallway."
I stood there against the wall and stared at the wood grain. My stepsister's door was closed. I could see light under it. I didn't know if she was listening.
My stepmother looked past my dad toward the living room. "Do you see this place? There's no door on that living room. There's no hallway bathroom that locks right. There's one couch and that rug and everyone sits on top of each other. How is that private for a little girl?"
"It's tight," my dad said. "I know it's tight. We make it work by respecting doors that do exist. His door stays shut, her door stays shut. Nobody goes in without knocking. That's the rule."
"Rules don't make her feel safe," she said.
My dad looked at me then. He didn't ask me to speak.
I swallowed and said, "I don't go near her room."
My stepmother glanced at me. Her expression didn't change. "It's not about what you do, it's about what she feels when you're right there."
That was the whole problem. I could not fix a feeling by standing still.
My dad stepped between us, not aggressive, just placing himself in the middle of the hall.
"Listen," he said to her. "He keeps his room. She keeps hers. We keep the living room as the living room, not a bedroom. If space is the issue, we talk about shelving or a curtain for her room, or we rearrange furniture, but we don't push my son onto a couch in front of the fireplace like a guest."
For a second nobody moved. The cabin was quiet except for the furnace kicking on. The warm light from the living room fell across the patterned rug and into the hall and made everything look normal, which made it worse.
My stepmother didn't agree, but she didn't push again that night. She walked back to her bedroom and closed the door hard enough that one of the framed photos on the mantel rattled. I heard my stepsister's door open a crack, then close again.
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My dad put a hand on my shoulder. "Go to bed," he said. "Your room is your room. Don't worry about the rest tonight."
I went to my room and shut the door and stood with my back against it. I could hear my dad's boots on the wood floor as he went back to the living room and turned the TV off. The house felt smaller than ever, like the walls had moved in a foot on each side.
