Page 3 of I'm sorry, Princess
The game just started.
Chapter Two
Serena
Glass shatters.
The sound slices through the house like a blade, and my mother’s cries ricochet off the walls. Her voice is sharp, raw, almost inhuman in its desperation.
“You’re fucking her again?”
Her words are like poison spilling into the room, venom wrapped in grief.
I freeze in the hallway, my back pressed against the cold wall, breath caught in my throat. I’m transported back to being ten years old again, the little girl who always listened through closed doors, who learned early on that love, in my family, comes with shattered glass andwhispered betrayals.
My heart pounds against my ribs, a dull ache forming behind my eyes.
Not again. Please, not again.
Inside the kitchen, my father’s voice is calm, so calm it chills my bones.
“Keep your voice down. There’s no point in this scene.”
His indifference is a slap harder than any raised hand.
My mother doesn’t listen. She never does when she’s like this, when her carefully painted façade crumbles and the real woman underneath claws her way out. Her words hit harder this time, sharper, more bitter.
“Is it because she looks better than me? Is that it?” Her voice cracks.
Oh God, stop.
“Guess what, Thomas?” she spits his name like it’s a curse. “I had the child you fucking wanted! My body changed, asshole. That’s what happens when you grow life inside you!”
The lump in my throat threatens to choke me.
She means me.
This isn’t the first time she’s said it, that I ruined her body, that my existence left scars she never wanted. But hearing it again now, in the dead of morning, under the sterile kitchen light, makes my stomach turn. I press my palm against the wall to steady myself. The old ache blooms in my chest.
Maybe she regrets me. Maybe she always did.
I want to turn away, to crawl back into my room and bury myself under the sheets. But something keeps me rooted here, like some part of me needs to hear this. Maybe because, deep down, I’ve always believed it.
I hear my father sigh, and his voice comes out soft but sharp, like a scalpel.
“Enough, Lauren.” He says her name with exhaustion, not love.
“Stop the theatrics.”
Throats tighten, words stick. My mother’s breathing is ragged, like she’s choking on her own heartbreak. I know this script by heart. They do this every few months. Sometimes it’s over someone new, sometimes over nothing at all. It’s like they’ve forgotten how to love each other without war.
Or maybe they never knew.
I step into the kitchen before I hear something I can’t un-hear.
Before I find out just how deep the regret runs.
The room falls silent when I enter.
