Chapter 1

The back of my head hit the kitchen cabinet, hard.

Stars exploded behind my eyes, just for a second.

My mother, Karen, stood over me, her face tight with a rage I' d never understood.

"Look at this mess!" she screamed, pointing at a tiny smear of jam on the counter. "Are you completely useless, Sarah?"

I was nineteen, the youngest of three. My sisters, Jessica and Emily, never got this. They moved through the house like ghosts, quiet and distant. They never made messes, or if they did, Mom never saw. Or never cared.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, scrambling up. My scalp throbbed.

"Sorry doesn't clean the counter," she spat, her voice low and dangerous.

This was our normal. Small things, or nothing at all, would set her off. A misplaced book, a sigh that was too loud, sometimes just me existing in the same room.

The hospital visits were becoming a blur. A "fall" down the stairs. A "bump" against a door. The doctors looked at me with pity, sometimes suspicion, but Mom was always there, smooth and concerned, explaining my clumsiness.

I' d even done a DNA test last year, a kit I bought online with saved-up cash. The results came back clear: Karen was my biological mother.

It didn' t make sense. Why would a mother hate her own daughter this much?

Jessica, the oldest, just looked through me when I tried to talk to her. Her eyes were old, tired.

Emily, the middle one, would just shake her head and walk away.

"Just stay out of her way, Sarah," Emily had said once, her voice flat. "It's easier."

Easier for who?

Tonight, the jam smear was my crime. My father, David, was away on one of his frequent "business trips." He was always my buffer, the one who' d gently pull Mom away, murmuring soothing words.

Without him, the house felt like a minefield, and I was always stepping in the wrong place.

My head still hurt. I cleaned the jam, my hands shaking.

Mom watched me, her arms crossed. "You're more trouble than you're worth."

Her words landed like stones. They always did.

I wondered, not for the first time, if I was going crazy. Or if she was. Or if this was just how life was supposed to be for me.

The silence in the house was heavy, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator.

My sisters were in their rooms, doors closed. Safe.

I wished Dad was home. He always knew how to calm her down. He' d hug me, tell me Mom was just stressed.

But even his hugs felt different lately, a little too tight, a little too long. Or maybe I was just imagining things, desperate for any kind of comfort.

I finished cleaning, my reflection staring back from the polished counter, a girl with haunted eyes.

"Go to your room," Mom said, her voice devoid of emotion now. "And don't come out."

I didn't need to be told twice.