Chapter 1

I had two houses under my name. But since I turned seventeen, I hadn't spent a single night in either of them.

It was not that I couldn't afford to live there. It was that couldn't go back.

My mom lived there, along with my stepfather, Richard, and his kids, Eden and Sabrina.

My mom always said, "We're all family. Let's just squeeze in together." But the one who got pushed out was me.

When my relatives found out, they just laughed and said, "Your mom's got it tough. Try to be generous."

Try to be generous. I'd been hearing that word for six years straight.

After graduating college, the first thing I did wasn't look for a job. Instead, I called a locksmith.

*****

When the locksmith finished swapping out the last lock, he handed me three brand-new keys.

They were brass, so shiny they almost hurt my eyes. I clenched them in my palm, the metal edges digging into my skin.

"Miss, all three doors are done. Grade C security, 160 dollars," he said.

I pulled out 200 dollars from my bag and didn't ask for change.

As soon as I closed the door, the room went dead quiet.

The hum of the AC, the smell of restaurant from downstairs, and the kid next door crying, all of it was shut out.

I stood in the entryway, staring at the new lock for a long time.

The stainless steel plate was twice as thick as the one my dad had put in six years ago.

Six years ago, when my dad was still around, this door was never locked.

He used to say the neighbors on Rose Alley had been here for decades. Locking the door would just ruin the sense of community.

But after he was gone, that door never opened for me again.

*****

It was the winter of 2018, and I was fifteen.

My dad was diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer. From diagnosis to his passing, it was forty-seven days.

One afternoon, when he was most clear-headed before he passed, Dad called me to his bedside. "Lindsay, both of my houses are under your name."

He pulled a brown paper envelope from under his pillow. Inside were two house deeds.

He added, "Number 17 on Rose Alley, and the smaller one on Riverside Road."

I couldn't take any of it in at the time. All I could do was cry.

His hand was so thin, the bones jutting out, as he softly rested it on my head. "After I'm gone, you have to take care of yourself."

Dad never mentioned my mom. Looking back now, maybe he already knew something.

Before the funeral was even over, my mom's phone was blowing up nonstop.

Those days were a blur. All I remember was that suddenly, there was a man's voice in the house.

He'd said, "Beatrice, let me help you with the arrangements."

His name was Richard Quinn, forty-six, a construction worker with rough hands and nails that were always dirty, no matter how much he scrubbed.

On the seventh day after my dad passed, he spent the night at our place for the first time.

On the forty-ninth day, his suitcase was sitting right outside the master bedroom.

Mom said, "Richard is here to help out. It's hard to manage without a man in the house."

I didn't say anything. I thought his 'help' was just temporary.

But two months later, that 'help' turned into living together. And living together turned into the whole family moving in.

Richard didn't come alone.

One Saturday afternoon, I came home from school and found two strangers sitting on the living room couch. A boy and a girl.

The boy was five or six years older than me, had his feet propped up, gaming away.

The girl was sitting at the coffee table, doing her makeup in front of a mirror, and had the whole table covered with her stuff.

"These are Richard's kids, Eden and Sabrina," Mom said with a smile. "From now on, we're all family. Try to get along."

Eden glanced at me, didn't say a word, and kept playing his game.

Sabrina didn't even look up.

I stood in the middle of the living room, my backpack straps digging into my shoulders.

Something felt off, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

Until I pushed open the door to my room, my desk was gone.

In its place was a folding camp bed, covered with some checkered sheet I'd never seen before.

My books, my desk lamp, and the guitar I'd practiced for three years. Everything was piled up in boxes out on the balcony.

"Sabrina's got your room now," Mom said, walking up behind me, sounding casual. "You'll be sleeping in the little room on the balcony. Just squeeze in."

I stood in front of those boxes, clutching my backpack, my throat tight.

Squeeze in. It was the first time I ever heard those words.