Chapter 7
Just as Anna was about to drift off, her phone screen suddenly lit up.
In the silent, dark room, that little bit of light felt almost piercing.
It was her alarm.
The one set for six in the morning.
She'd forgotten to turn it off last night.
The harsh alarm suddenly pierced the pre-dawn quiet, cutting through the stillness.
"Mm..." Michael rolled over next to Anna, sleepily mumbling a few words before pulling the blanket over his head.
Anna fumbled for her phone and quickly shut off the alarm.
Her heart was pounding in her chest, so loud in the quiet that it felt deafening.
She held her breath, lying perfectly still, not daring to move a muscle.
Anna silently willed Margaret to stay asleep. Just a little longer. Five or ten more minutes, that was all she wanted.
But of course, nothing ever went the way Anna wanted.
The guest room doorknob turned.
The sound was barely a whisper, but in the silence Anna went rigid, every nerve in her body suddenly awake.
Her heart dropped like a stone.
Whatever hope she had left was shattered completely.
The door was gently pushed open.
Margaret stood in the doorway, her pajamas perfectly tidy. There was no sign she'd just been woken up, only an unbothered calm and a touch of impatience.
Her eyes landed on Anna, and when she saw that Anna was still wearing yesterday's coat, her brows twitched just a bit.
"Anna, what time did you get home last night?" Margaret's voice was soft, but in the quiet, it rang out clear as day.
Anna pushed herself up, her head spinning.
"A little after three," she croaked, her voice rough and hoarse.
"A little after three?" Margaret's tone stayed the same, but Anna could hear the disapproval loud and clear.
"Why are you coming home so late again? A young woman out alone at all hours. It is not safe, and it is not right. Did you even think about that?"
Anna opened her mouth, wanting to say she'd been working late, trying to finish a project.
But her throat tightened, and she couldn't get a single word out.
Would it even matter if she said anything?
"Come on, get up already," Margaret said, heading for the kitchen. "It is already past six. If you keep dragging your feet, there will not be time to make breakfast. Michael has to leave by seven-thirty."
Anna sat on the edge of the bed, gazing out at the darkness still pressing heavily against the window.
It felt like every last bit of strength had been drained from her body.
She slowly slid off the bed.
The instant her feet hit the floor, the cold shot straight up from her toes to her head.
She made her way to the kitchen.
Margaret was already in her apron, standing at the counter, measuring out oats.
"Go grab the scones from the fridge and warm them up," Margaret ordered, not bothering to look up.
Anna quietly opened the fridge and took out the cold scones.
Her fingers touched the icy packaging, and the cold made her shudder.
She arranged the scones on a baking sheet and turned on the oven.
The gas flame flared up with a soft whoosh beneath the pot of oatmeal on the stove.
She stood there, staring at the blue flames flickering under the pot, her eyes blank and empty.
Her brain felt thick and sluggish, like it was filled with fog.
Her temples throbbed, and even her eyes felt like they were about to burst.
Every part of her was begging for sleep. She just wanted to collapse and pass out.
"Why are you just standing there? Go wipe down the table and set the silverware," Margaret snapped from behind, her impatience clear.
Anna turned to get a cleaning cloth.
Maybe she turned too quickly, maybe it was low blood sugar, or maybe she was just completely exhausted.
Suddenly, everything went dark, and she felt herself spinning.
Instinctively, she reached out, trying to grab something to steady herself, her hand swiping blindly through the air.
The crash was deafening.
Her elbow sent the pot of oatmeal flying.
The scalding pot tipped, sending thick, sticky oatmeal everywhere. Most of it poured over the back of her hand and forearm.
A bit even splattered onto the top of her foot.
"Ah—"
The searing pain raced up her nerves like fire.
Anna screamed, jerking her hand away as she staggered back several steps, her back slamming hard into the fridge with a dull thud.
She hunched over in pain, gripping her right wrist tightly with her left hand.
Her hand and forearm turned bright red almost instantly, and soon a row of clear blisters bubbled up. Her skin stung like it was being jabbed by needles.
The spot on her foot where the oatmeal had splashed burned with sharp, stabbing pain.
"Seriously! Look at yourself. Why are you always so scatterbrained?" Margaret snapped.
Margaret did not even bother to check if Anna was hurt.
Instead, she fixated on the mess. Her face was full of obvious heartache for the wasted food and straight-up annoyance at Anna.
"You ruined a whole pot of oatmeal! And just look at the pot and the stove. What a disaster you have made!" Margaret scolded.
She rushed over, but instead of checking on Anna, she turned off the stove, snatched up a cleaning cloth, and started mopping up the oatmeal from the stove and the floor.
Her movements were fast and frantic, grumbling nonstop as she worked.
"I have told you a hundred times. Be steady and careful when you do things! Look at you. You cannot even manage a simple pot!" Margaret snapped.
"This oatmeal is the good kind I bought specially. It is not cheap! And now it is all wasted in an instant!" she complained.
"And look at the floor and the stove. Sticky everywhere, such a mess to clean up!" Margaret kept griping.
She grumbled nonstop as she cleaned, not even sparing Anna a single glance.
Not once did she ask if Anna was hurting.
Not once did she ask how bad Anna's injury was.
She did not even notice how Anna's face had gone ghostly pale, or the cold sweat breaking out on her forehead from the pain.
Anna slumped against the cold fridge door, slowly sliding down to the floor.
The pain in her right arm came in waves, making her shake uncontrollably.
Tears suddenly welled up, blurring her vision.
It was not all because of the pain.
Or at least, not just that.
Because right now, Margaret cared way more about the ruined oatmeal and the stove than about Anna, who had just burned herself.
Because all the frustration, exhaustion, and feeling ignored and disrespected she had bottled up these past two weeks finally exploded. Triggered by that burning oatmeal and Margaret's icy words.