Chapter 3: The Piece Of Wallpaper Nobody Was Allowed To Touch
My sister stayed pressed against my back, both hands twisted into the fabric of my hoodie. Every time I shifted, she shifted with me. Dad stood a few feet away, close enough to intervene but not close enough to make me feel safe. My stepmother remained between him and the center of the hallway, her slender body rigid, her dark hair still pulled neatly back. Nothing about her looked disturbed except the hard set of her mouth.
I lowered my eyes to the damaged wallpaper.
The tear was smaller than my thumb. One pointed flap curled outward from the faded flowers, casting a thin shadow beneath it. The lock of blonde hair emerged from that darkness and bent against the paper. It was not caught on the surface. It came from behind it.
I crouched slowly. My sister tried to crouch with me, then lost her balance and clutched my shoulder. I caught her wrist without looking away from the wall. The hallway smelled of old wood and dust, but close to the tear there was another stale odor I could not place.
My hand stopped inches from the hair.
Pulling it would have been easy. So would widening the tear. Either choice might have told me more, but it also might have destroyed the only thing that showed my sister had pointed to something real. I studied the edges instead. The upper edge was jagged and pale where the paper had separated. The lower edge lay almost flat. If someone pressed the flap down and matched the flowers, the opening would nearly disappear.
Behind me, my stepmother moved.
Her shoes struck the floor in two quick steps. She pointed down the hallway, then at us, making the meaning clear without speaking: the children were the problem, and the children needed to be removed. Her hand closed into a fist at her side when Dad did not respond.
Dad looked from her to the wall. His face held the same conflict I had seen when he arrived—anger at the threat, disbelief at what my sister had said, and something quieter that made him avoid the blonde hair. My stepmother reached toward the loose flap.
I stood so fast that my sister stumbled into me. I blocked the wall with my body, one arm behind me to keep her close. My stepmother stopped before touching me, but only because Dad stepped into the space between us.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Dad’s shoulder faced my stepmother. His eyes remained on the tear. He could have covered it with one push of his thumb. He could have ordered us away and let the hallway return to what it had been before my sister raised her hand. Instead, he planted one foot beside the baseboard, preventing my stepmother from getting close without forcing her way past him.
That was not belief. It was not enough to make me trust him. But it left the evidence visible.
I eased my sister to the side without releasing her hand. Then I took off my hoodie. The colder air reached through my shirt as I knelt and laid the hoodie on the floor several inches from the wall. I spread it flat, creating a boundary around the torn section without touching the wallpaper, the hair, or the baseboard.
My sister lowered herself beside me and gripped my sleeve. Her blue eyes stayed fixed on the opening. I positioned myself so she could hide her face against my arm if she needed to, but I did not let either of us cross the edge of the hoodie.
Dad watched what I was doing. His gaze moved over the clean space between the fabric and the wall, then to my empty hands. He understood that I was not trying to tear anything open. I was marking what had to remain unchanged.
My stepmother’s expression sharpened. She gestured again toward the far end of the hallway, more forcefully this time. Then she reached down as if to snatch up the hoodie.
Dad caught her wrist.
He released it almost immediately, but the choice had already been made. The hallway no longer belonged entirely to her rules. She stepped back, smoothing the cuff of her formal blouse as if that could erase what had happened.
I rose with my sister tucked against my side. I kept one foot beside the makeshift boundary and watched the floral flap lift slightly in the draft. The lock of hair shifted with it, then settled back into the dim opening.
Until then, I had thought my job was to stand between my sister and my stepmother. Looking at Dad’s divided face, I understood that protection meant more than that. If we stayed inside the mansion’s control, any promise could change as soon as a door closed. The tear could be flattened. The hair could vanish. My sister could be separated from me.
I pointed first to the untouched wall, then toward the front of the house. I kept my hand steady until Dad followed the gesture.
His eyes narrowed with the weight of what it meant. Leaving the evidence visible was no longer enough. Someone outside the family would have to see it before anybody changed it.
May you like
Dad turned toward the end of the hallway.
My stepmother moved at the same moment, placing herself in his path, while my sister tightened both arms around mine. I stayed beside the marked space, watching Dad decide whether the next door would open for help—or close on all of us.
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