The harsh scent stung my nose. Austin remained near the hallway, staring silently at the floor. My father, Lawrence, never even rose from the sofa. He continued watching television as though my arrival was nothing more than an inconvenience.
“I’m going to put my belongings in my room,” I said.
I headed toward the bedroom where I had slept since childhood. The moment I pushed the door open, my blood turned to ice. My bed had v@nished.
My books, photographs, treasured keepsakes, and the sewing machine I had purchased with my very first paycheck were all gone.
In their place sat bags filled with old clothing, cartons of diapers, a brand-new stroller, and broken pieces of furniture.
“What happened to my room?” I asked my mother.
Abigail lowered her head, unable to meet my gaze.
“Sweetheart, it’s been two years, and this house isn’t very big,” Abigail replied softly. “Sheila needs the room for the baby’s things.”
