Page 11 of I'm sorry, Princess
“I love you, you idiot,” she says, finally pulling away.
“I love you more.”
And then she’s gone.
I open the front door and step into a house that feels more like a museum than a home.
Silent.
Cold.
Empty.
No footsteps echo from the hallway. No sound of Erika humming while folding laundry. No clinking of dishes from the kitchen. Since she left for Germany to visit her family this week, the house has felt like a lifeless shell. Likesomething abandoned, except for the people still breathing inside.
I kick off my sneakers, the soft thud the only noise filling the massive, hollow space.
It’s like walking into a graveyard of glass and marble. Our house is too big for three people, hell, it’s too big for ten. But that’s how my parents like it.
Grand, cold, and empty. Just like them.
I should go straight to my room. I should hide under the covers and lose myself in a book, pretend the world doesn’t exist.
But something in my chest pulls me toward her door.
My mother.
I walk down the long, sterile hallway, my heart picking up speed the closer I get.
I knock softly, but there’s no answer.
“Mom?” My voice wavers.
I hate how I sound, small, unsure. Like a kid again, tiptoeing through a house filled with secrets.
After a long pause, her voice finally comes through the door.
“Yes, my dear! I’m just… a little busy. Congratulations on your job.”
Her tone is clipped, rushed. Her words are wrapped in something sharp and ragged, like she’s holding her breath between each syllable.
I try the door handle. Locked.
“Okay.” I swallow the knot in my throat. “You’ll let me know if you need me, right?”
“Don’t worry,” she replies quickly. Too quickly. “I just need to rest.”
Rest.
That word again.
That code word for leave me alone.
I stand there for a few more seconds, staring at the door. My fingers linger on the handle, but I don’t push. I’ve learned my lesson about that.
If she wanted me, she’d call me.
If she loved me, she’d open the door.
