Chapter 1

Margaret Taylor slammed her bowl down on the table. "I told you, my sister is moving in next week."

I paused, my chopsticks frozen halfway to my mouth, keeping my head down.

Our place was only 624 square feet, including two bedrooms and a living room. My in-laws had one room, while David Carter and I squeezed into the other with our six-year-old son. We've been packed in like this for eight years.

"Mom, where are we supposed to put her?" David finally spoke up, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

"The living room. We can set up a bed there," Margaret said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Your aunt's all alone back home, stuck in bed with no one to look after her.

"You want me to stand by and watch her die?"

I set my chopsticks down. "Mom, I know about your sister's situation, but..."

"What do you know?" Margaret snapped, shooting me a glare. "You're an outsider. Who gave you the right to speak up?"

An outsider.

For eight years, I'd lived here, cooked every meal, washed every piece of laundry.

However, I was an outsider.

I bit my tongue and kept quiet.

Richard Carter had been drinking in silence, not saying a word. Suddenly, he slammed his glass down and stood up.

Smack.

He slapped Margaret right across her face.

"Isn't this house already a mess?" Richard snapped.

The living room went dead silent for three seconds.

Margaret clutched her face, her eyes blazing with fury. "Richard, did you slap me? You'd hit me because of that outsider?"

"I hit you because you're being unreasonable," Richard said, his voice rough. "This place is only 624 square feet, and there are already five of us packed in here.

"Now you want to squeeze in even more people? Who are you trying to push over the edge?"

Margaret started crying.

But her tears weren't from feeling hurt. They were fueled by anger and spite.

"Fine, fine, none of you care, so I'll handle it myself. I'm going back to my hometown tomorrow to bring her here. If anyone tries to stop me, I'll fight you tooth and nail," Margaret snapped.

David gave me that look.

I knew that look all too well. It was helpless, avoiding, and wanting to stay out of anything.

For eight years, whenever Margaret started something with me, he always gave me that same look.

I stood up, gathered the dishes, and walked into the kitchen.

I turned on the faucet, letting the water drown out the shouting from the living room.

My hands were shaking.