Chapter 1: The Wooden Keepsake Box
The wood of the keepsake box was still warm from my palms when Victoria ripped it away. My fingers had curved around its cedar edges so tightly that my knuckles ached, white as bone under the harsh hallway light. I remember the scent of old lavender and dried rose petals that always drifted out whenever the brass latch clicked open—my only tangible link to a mother I barely remembered. But Victoria didn't care about memories. To her, anything belonging to my mother was clutter, an aesthetic flaw in the pristine white-and-beige minimalist mausoleum she had made of our home.
“You’ve been told twice to leave that rubbish in your room, Sophie,” Victoria said, her voice dropping into that smooth, terrifyingly level register she reserved for when my father wasn't standing right beside her. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a severe, immaculate bun that defied a single stray strand, matching the crisp white short-sleeve dress she wore like a uniform.
“No, please, it's my mom's keepsake!” I cried, my voice cracking into a ragged sob as I scrambled up from the hardwood floor where she had shoved me. My knees stung from the impact, and the white cotton of my dress was smudged with dust.
Before I could lunge forward to grab the carved lid, Victoria had already marched me toward the upstairs guest bathroom. Her hand clamped onto my shoulder with a force that belied her slender frame, steering me inexorably toward the white-paneled door. I planted my sneakers against the polished floorboards, digging my heels in, but it was useless.
“You need a lesson in obedience, little girl. Maybe a few minutes in the dark will teach you how to listen,” she whispered coldly, shoving me over the threshold.
The heavy wooden door slammed shut with a definitive thud, and the metallic click of the privacy lock turning from the outside felt like a gunshot in the confined space. Panic seized my chest, hot and suffocating. I threw myself against the white wood, my small fists pounding until my wrists throbbed.
“Help me, Dad! Please help me!” I screamed, tears streaming down my face, blurring the small bathroom into a dizzying smear of white tiles and chrome fixtures.
Downstairs, the front door had opened, and heavy footsteps slammed against the wooden stairs. It was Mark, my father, returning early from his hardware supply district meeting. I heard his boots pounding up the staircase, the wood groaning under his weight, his voice echoing through the hallway in an urgent, booming baritone.
“Sophie? Where are you?” Mark yelled, the panic in his voice cutting right through the walls.
I stopped pounding for a split second, gasping for air. “Dad! In here! She locked me in!”
Before I could hit the wood again, the doorknob rattled violently. Through the muffled barrier, I heard the sharp, furious escalation of voices. Mark had reached the landing, stepping straight into Victoria’s path. I pressed my ear against the cool paint of the door, holding my breath as their confrontation boiled over.
“Victoria, step away from that bathroom door right now,” Mark demanded, his voice thick with a dark, terrifying anger that he rarely unleashed at home.
I could picture him—tall, broad-shouldered in his light blue button-down shirt and dark pants, his short dark hair slightly disheveled from driving, stepping close to Victoria with an intense glare. But Victoria didn't flinch. Through the wood, her voice floated back, infuriatingly calm, twisting the narrative before he could even process what had happened.
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“Mark, thank goodness you're home. She was having a complete tantrum, throwing things, and I had to contain her for her own safety—she was going to hurt herself with that jagged wooden box—”
“You do not ever lock my child inside a room!” Mark roared, cutting her off mid-sentence. The sound of the lock turning violently followed, and the door swung open, nearly catching my shoulder as I stumbled backward into the hallway, sobbing openly into the empty air. My father dropped to his knees instantly, his strong hands catching me by the upper arms, pulling me against the solid warmth of his chest while his fierce eyes remained locked on Victoria, who stood a few feet away, adjusting her cuffs with glacial poise.
