Part 2Zero Stars Left For Daddy

Simon scoffed, waving away my words like an irritating fly.

"Never coming back? Fine by me. Let's see how long her little pride keeps her warm."

He turned toward Candice, his tone instantly shifting into something warm and protective. "Candice, since she chose to abandon the house, you and Courtney take the master bedroom. That king mattress has plenty of room, especially with Courtney tossing around in her sleep."

My hand froze on the knob.

The master bedroom was Mom’s haven. She suffered from chronic, agonizing migraines and insomnia; she had personally tested beds from a dozen different stores before choosing that specific mattress. Every scented candle, every watercolor on the wall, had been chosen by her hands.

Candice assumed an expression of pained reluctance, waving her hands in protest. "Simon, I can't do that. That's Marian's sanctuary. If an outsider moves into her space, she'll be heartbroken when she comes home. Courtney and I can just take the sleeper sofa. Really, I don't mind."

Simon ignored her, hauling Candice's large rolling suitcase directly toward the master bedroom door.

"There's nothing wrong with it. I pay the mortgage on this house, and I make the rules. She's the one who threw her life away for a fit of spite. If she wants to give up her place, it goes to someone who appreciates it."

He kicked the master bedroom door open.

"Come on. Let's clear her clutter out of the way."

I let go of my doorknob and ran down the hall, stopping dead at the threshold of Mom’s room.

Simon was already at the closet, tearing Mom's dresses off their wooden hangers and hurling them onto the floor. Her favorite emerald-green silk dress—the one she wore whenever she felt beautiful—fell beneath his leather dress shoe. He stepped right on the delicate fabric, grinding gray dust into the silk.

"Don't touch my mother's things."

I walked into the room, dropped to my knees, and gathered the emerald dress into my arms, hugging it tight against my chest.

Simon looked down at me, his gaze entirely devoid of warmth. "Hazel, I really don't want to lose my temper and hit you today. Put the dress down and go sit in the living room."

I buried my face in the silk, breathing in the faint scent of her lavender soap. "This belongs to Mom."

Simon’s patience snapped.

He reached down, grabbed the back of my shirt collar, and hoisted me off the floor like a sack of garbage.

"I told you! If she had the guts to walk out, she doesn't get to keep her junk!"

He threw me aside.

I hit the hardwood floor out in the hallway with a sickening thud. The silk dress spilled from my grip. My elbow slammed hard against the baseboard, a shooting, white-hot pain ricocheting up my arm.

I bit my lip until I tasted copper, but I didn't make a sound.

Courtney stood near the doorway, giggling behind her small hands. She wandered over to the nightstand and picked up the tarnished, wind-up wristwatch resting beside the lamp.

"Uncle Simon, look at this watch! It's so vintage and pretty. Can I have it?"

My breath caught.

That watch was the only heirloom my grandmother had left Mom before she passed away. The crystal was scratched, the leather strap frayed, but every single night, Mom would wipe the glass clean with a soft velvet cloth before going to sleep.

Simon didn't even turn his head. "It's just an old piece of scrap metal. If you like it, take it."

"No!"

I scrambled up from the floor, throwing myself forward to snatch it back.

Courtney let out a piercing shriek and darted behind Candice's skirt. "Mommy, help! Hazel’s trying to beat me up!"

Candice pulled Courtney into her arms, her eyes welling with immediate, maternal distress as she looked at Simon. "Simon, Courtney grew up without a father—she's so fragile. Please don't let Hazel scare her like this."

Simon caught me by the shoulders and shoved me violently backward.

"Hazel! Have you completely lost your mind?" he roared. "Candice came here out of the goodness of her heart to look after you, and this is how you treat our guests?"

My back crashed hard against the corridor wall, the air knocked out of my lungs in a dull, bruising ache.

"That was my grandmother’s," I said, my voice eerily steady. "If you give it away, Mom will be devastated."

Simon yanked at his necktie, laughing as if I had told the most ridiculous joke he'd ever heard.

"Devastated? What does she know about feeling devastated? All that woman knows how to do is weaponize fake illnesses and run away to manipulate me!"

He pointed an accusing finger at the pile of silk and linen heaped on the floor.

"Go to the kitchen, get some heavy-duty contractor bags, and drag all of this down to the dumpster."

I didn't move an inch.

Simon walked over until he towered over me, his shadow blotting out the hallway light. "You think you can defy me now? Fine. If you won't throw it out, I'll pay someone else to do it."

He pulled out his phone and dialed a local hauling service. "I need a two-man crew at my address immediately. Master bedroom. Strip every personal item, clothes, vanity supplies, and haul it straight to the dump."

Thirty minutes later, two men in heavy canvas work pants arrived with thick black plastic sacks.

Mom's cardigans, her hand-bound sketchbooks, her delicate glass perfume bottles, the dried hydrangeas she had kept from last spring—all of it was shoved violently into the yawning mouths of the bags.

I stood in the shadow of the hallway corner, watching them systematically erase every proof that my mother had ever lived in this house.

Courtney sat on the couch, swinging her patent leather shoes, rhythmically slamming the heirloom watch against the glass table with sharp, hollow clicks.

Candice carried a glass of warm water over to Simon, her voice honeyed and soothing.

"Simon, drink some water. Try to calm down. Marian might come back in a few days. If you throw everything away, she's going to cause such a scene when she returns."

Simon took a sip, his mouth set in a hard, cruel line.

"A scene? Let her try," he said, watching the movers carry the final black bag out through the front door. "When she crawls back, you make sure she understands: she doesn't set foot past that threshold until she gets on her knees and apologizes to both of you."

I looked into the stripped, echoey vacancy of the master bedroom.

"She won't apologize to them," I whispered into the quiet.

I turned away and walked back toward my dark room.

"And she will never fight with you again."