The morning sunlight filtered through the thin curtains in my room, casting uneven shadows on the cracked walls. For a moment, I stayed in bed, the warmth of the blanket doing little to shield me from the tension already simmering in my chest. I had spent the past few days alternating between rage and worry over my mother's disappearance, and now that she was back, the dam of emotions I had been holding back felt ready to burst.

I heard movement downstairs—the shuffle of feet, the clink of a bottle against a countertop. My stomach tightened. I threw off the blanket and stormed down the stairs, my bare feet slapping against the worn wood. The house was silent except for the faint sounds from the kitchen, and it felt emptier than usual, like the walls were holding their breath.

She was in the kitchen, her back to me, pouring coffee into a chipped mug. She looked disheveled, her hair tangled and her clothes wrinkled, as if she'd slept in them. The sour smell of alcohol clung to her like a second skin, mingling with the faint aroma of the stale coffee. The fridge door hung slightly ajar, revealing near-empty shelves. My eyes flicked to the counter, where a single loaf of bread sat, half-eaten and starting to mold.

"Where the hell have you been?" I snapped, my voice cutting through the quiet like a whip.

She turned slowly, her expression tired and irritated. "Good morning to you, too," she said, taking a sip of her coffee. Her voice was raspy, like she'd been yelling or crying. The hollows under her eyes were darker than I remembered, and the lines on her face seemed deeper.

"Don't 'good morning' me," I shot back, my fists clenched at my sides. "You disappeared for days without a word! I had no idea where you were, or if you were even alive."

"I'm here now," she said flatly, setting the mug down on the counter. "What's the big deal?"

I let out a bitter laugh. "The big deal? Are you serious? We don't have any food in the house. The fridge is empty. What was I supposed to do if you never came back?"

She rolled her eyes and waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, stop being so dramatic, Emily. I was in jail, okay? I got into a little fight at the Walmart, and the cops overreacted."

My jaw dropped. "You got arrested? Are you kidding me?"

"It's not that big of a deal," she said, leaning against the counter like we were talking about the weather. "They let me out after a couple of nights. But apparently, I'm banned from that stupid store now."

"Banned?" I repeated, my voice rising. "You're banned from Walmart? What the hell, Mom? You're already banned from half the stores in town! Where are we supposed to get food and clothes and everything else we need?"

She shrugged, taking another sip of her coffee. "We'll just have stuff delivered. Problem solved."

I stared at her in disbelief. "Do you even hear yourself? Deliveries are expensive! We're already barely getting by as it is. How do you think we're going to afford that?"

"We'll figure it out," she said dismissively, turning away to rummage through the cupboards. "Stop worrying so much."

"I have to worry because you don't!" I shouted, the words exploding out of me before I could stop them. "We're living on welfare, Mom. Welfare! We barely have enough to cover bills, and now you're making it even harder."

She slammed the cupboard door shut and spun around, her eyes narrowing. "Don't lecture me, Emily. I'm doing the best I can."

"No, you're not," I said, my voice trembling with anger. "You're not even trying. You're just making everything worse."

Her face twisted into a scowl, and for a moment, I thought she was going to lash out. But then she pointed a shaking finger toward the stairs. "Go to your room, Emily. Now."

I opened my mouth to argue, to say something—anything—to make her see how ridiculous she was being. But the look on her face stopped me. Her eyes were bloodshot, her expression a mixture of exhaustion and anger. It was like looking at a fragile piece of glass, one crack away from shattering completely.

Without another word, I turned and stomped up the stairs, my hands balled into fists at my sides. The door to my room slammed shut behind me, and I threw myself onto the bed, letting out a scream muffled by the pillow. The fabric smelled faintly of dust, mold and sweat, and I hated it almost as much as everything else right now.

For a while, I just lay there, my chest heaving with angry breaths. My thoughts raced, jumping from one frustration to the next. The emptiness of the house, the lack of food, the sheer audacity of her thinking deliveries would magically solve everything. It was too much.

Eventually, the anger began to fade, leaving behind a hollow ache that settled deep in my chest. I sat up and looked around my room, the cracked walls and peeling wallpaper a stark reminder of how little we had. My books and papers were scattered across the desk, a chaotic mess that mirrored the turmoil inside me. The knot in my stomach tightened, and I knew I couldn't stay cooped up here.

I got up and went to the window, pushing it open to let in the cool afternoon air. The view of the Carters' house across the yard caught my eye. Their porch was quiet now, but the sight of it brought a small flicker of comfort. The Carters always seemed to have it together—their lawn neatly trimmed, their curtains always drawn just so. It was a stark contrast to the chaos of my own life.

I grabbed my notebook from the desk and started jotting down ideas—anything that might help us get through this. Maybe I could find a part-time job, or figure out a way to stretch the little we had left. I scribbled down a few local stores and odd jobs I'd heard about, though most seemed like long shots.

But deep down, I knew it wasn't just about money or food. It was about the way everything felt so broken, like no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't fix what my mother had already shattered. I closed the notebook and stared out the window again, wishing for something—anything—to change.

A bird chirped on the windowsill, its small body flitting nervously as if sensing my despair. For a moment, I envied its simplicity—no worries, no responsibilities, just the freedom to fly away. I rested my forehead against the cool glass and closed my eyes, letting the soft breeze play against my face. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, a reminder that the world kept moving, even if mine felt like it had stopped.

After what felt like hours, I finally left my room. The house was eerily quiet except for the faint sound of the TV coming from the living room. As I made my way down the stairs, I could hear the theme music from The Young and the Restless playing. My mother was sprawled out on the couch, her feet propped up on the armrest, completely engrossed in the soap opera. An empty beer bottle rested precariously on the edge of the coffee table, threatening to fall with the slightest nudge.

I hesitated, the urge to turn back to my room gnawing at me. But my stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the bare countertops. The smell of stale coffee and some of mom's burnt food clung to the air, turning my stomach. The cupboards were still empty. No matter how long I stared, the answer was always the same: there was nothing to eat.

Then the doorbell rang. The sound was shrill and uneven, like the bell itself was on its last legs. I flinched but got up and walked to the door, opening it to find a delivery guy standing there with several bags of groceries in his hands. Relief should have washed over me at the sight of food, but it didn't. Instead, frustration welled up inside me like a storm ready to break.

"Delivery for Beverly," the man said, handing me the bags.

"Thanks," I muttered, taking them and shutting the door. My arms strained under the weight of the bags as I carried them into the living room. My mother must have placed the order earlier, ignoring everything I'd said about how expensive deliveries were. Again.

"Mom," I called, my voice edged with weariness. "Your delivery is here."

She muted the TV and sat up, her eyes lighting up as she saw the bags. A smile spread across her face, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Finally!" she said, practically skipping over to me. She snatched a bag out of my hand before I could set it down and began rummaging through it like a kid on Christmas morning. Chips, soda, cookies, frozen pizza, beer... junk food, and nothing else.

"Are you serious?" I said, my voice rising despite my attempt to stay calm. "This is what you bought? No real food, just junk and beer?"

"It's food," she said, shrugging like it wasn't a big deal. "What's your problem?"

"My problem," I snapped, "is that there's nothing here I can actually eat! No vegetables, no fresh ingredients—nothing!"

She rolled her eyes, the dismissive gesture stinging like a slap. "Oh, stop being so picky. You'll eat what's here or not at all."

My hands balled into fists at my sides. "You know I can't live off chips and beer," I said through gritted teeth. "Why couldn't you just get something—anything—healthy?"

Her smile vanished, replaced by a glare so cold it froze me in place. "Who do you think you're talking to like that?" she said, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Do you think I have money to waste on your fancy little requests? You're lucky I ordered anything at all."

My throat tightened, but I forced myself to speak. "You spend more on beer every week than it would cost to buy a loaf of bread and some eggs."

The words were barely out of my mouth before she lunged forward, her hand striking the side of my head with a force that left me reeling. "Don't you dare talk to me like that!" she hissed, her face inches from mine. "Ungrateful little brat."

I bit back the tears burning behind my eyes, refusing to let her see me cry. Instead, I grabbed a bag of chips and stormed up to my room, slamming the door behind me. My head throbbed where she'd hit me, but the pain was nothing compared to the suffocating weight of helplessness that settled over me.

The bag of chips lay untouched on my bed as I sat against the wall, knees drawn to my chest. Outside, the theme music of her soap opera resumed, mingling with the sound of her laughter. My stomach growled again, but I ignored it. Hunger was easier to endure than the bitterness of knowing this was my life.

Later that night, after my mother had fallen asleep, I slipped out of the house. The air was crisp, the kind of cold that bit at your cheeks and fingers, but I barely felt it as I made my way to the Carters'. Their house stood at the end of the street, the glow of the porch light a beacon in the darkness. My steps quickened as I neared, and through the window, I saw Jasmine sitting at the dining table with her mom, her laughter visible even from outside.

I hesitated for a moment before knocking lightly, my breath misting in the air. Jasmine answered almost immediately, her warm smile a balm to my frayed nerves.

"Emily! Come in," she said, pulling me inside. The scent of something savory lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth of the home. It was a stark contrast to the cold tension that had settled in my own house like a heavy fog.

Mrs. Carter greeted me with a kind smile and an open gesture toward the kitchen. "We just finished dinner, but there's plenty left. Help yourself."

I nodded shyly, grateful beyond words. Jasmine led me to the table, and soon I was seated with a plate of reheated lasagna in front of me. The meal was simple but comforting, the kind of food that reminded you of the good parts of life. Mr. Carter joined us, regaling us with a story about his adventures as a young man working in a traveling carnival. Jasmine and I laughed so hard we cried, and for a fleeting moment, I forgot about everything that had driven me to leave my house that night.

But the peace didn't last. A sudden, loud banging at the door startled us all. My fork clattered against my plate, and my stomach twisted as I recognized the voice that followed.

"Is Emily in there? She's my daughter, and she needs to come home!"

Mrs. Carter rose from her chair with a calmness that belied the tension crackling in the air. She opened the door but stood firmly in the frame, blocking my mother from stepping inside.

"Yes, she's here," Mrs. Carter said, her voice steady but firm. "But I think we need to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about," my mother snapped. Her words were sharp, each one cutting into the fragile barrier I had built around myself. "She's my kid, and she doesn't need to be in your house."

Mrs. Carter didn't flinch. Instead, she folded her arms and replied, "She's here because she's hungry. And because she feels safe here. That's not something to ignore."

The argument that followed was loud and bitter. My mother's voice rose and cracked with accusations—that the Carters were overstepping, meddling in things they didn't understand. Mrs. Carter countered with an unwavering calm, pointing out the signs of neglect that my mother seemed determined to deny. I sat frozen at the table, Jasmine's hand squeezing mine under the table. The walls of the house seemed to close in, the warmth replaced by the suffocating tension of two worlds colliding.

Finally, Mrs. Carter turned to me, her voice gentle but resolute. "Emily, do you want to go home with your mom, or do you want to stay here tonight?"

My mother's gaze bore into me, her eyes filled with anger and something else—desperation, maybe. I couldn't meet her eyes. My voice was barely above a whisper as I turned to Mrs. Carter and said, "I want to stay."

The silence that followed was heavier than anything I had ever felt. My mother's face twisted, her mouth opening as if to protest, but she didn't say another word. Instead, she spun on her heel and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind her. The sound reverberated through the house, shaking me to my core.

I stood there trembling, unable to move, until Mrs. Carter gently pulled me into a hug. Her arms were strong and steady.

"It's okay, sweetheart," she murmured, her voice as soothing as a lullaby. "You're safe here."

Jasmine came over and wrapped an arm around me too, and I felt the weight of their kindness settle over me like a warm blanket. For the first time that night, I allowed myself to cry—not out of sadness or fear, but out of relief. I wasn't alone.