Four Keys for Them, Zero for Me Chapter 09

Four Keys for Them, Zero for Me Chapter 09

“Vera Woods—someone’s here for you.”

The dorm manager called from the stairwell. I was revising the third chapter of Book Two.

I went downstairs.

They were standing at the building entrance. Dad in his three-year-old navy jacket. Mom with new chestnut-brown hair. They looked the same as six months ago.

But I didn’t.

Half a year ago, I’d have hung my head, said “Mom” and “Dad,” and waited to be lectured. Now I stood three steps away, hands in my pockets. I didn’t move closer.

“Vera, you’ve gotten thinner,” Mom said first. Her eyes ran over me—like inventory, checking a returned item for damage.

“Mm.”

“Why did you run off alone? You didn’t even tell us.” Dad’s tone was softer, but the message underneath was the same: You shouldn’t have left.

“I left the keys on the dresser.”

“Keys?” Mom frowned. “I didn’t even go into your room for three weeks. When I did, your closet was empty.”

Three weeks. I was gone three weeks before anyone stepped into my room. If not for cleaning, it would’ve been longer.

“We’re not here to fight.” Dad cut off Mom’s building steam. “That book…”

“Did you read it?”

They looked at each other. Mom’s lips moved, searching for words that wouldn’t sound too harsh. Finally: “Everything you wrote—was it true?”

“What do you think?”

“Some of it—you can’t blame us entirely. That scholarship thing. If you’d just said your ID was at home…”

“I called you. You were at the mall buying Sherry a dress.”

“That was because she had a competition—”

“Mom.”

I didn’t raise my voice. It was quiet enough to stop her.

“I sat in the hallway for eight and a half hours. Neighbors passed. They stared. You came home and asked me to help with the bags. You didn’t ask if I’d eaten.”

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Dad stepped in: “We weren’t paying attention then. But you can’t use that as a reason to—”

“It wasn’t just that one time.” I looked at him. “It was the itinerary. Four names. It was the parent\teacher conferences you never came to. It was the night I had a hundred\and\three\degree fever and nobody knocked on my door. It was when my brother stole from the joint account and you blamed me first.”

Every one—Mom’s face lost a shade of color. Dad’s hands hung at his sides, knuckles white.

“None of you remember any of this, do you?” My voice stayed even. No tears. No shake. “Because I didn’t matter. Things that happen to people who don’t matter aren’t worth remembering.”

Mom’s eyes reddened. She opened her mouth—I didn’t let her.

“But I remember. Every single day. I started a diary at thirteen. The first line: If I disappear, how long will it take them to notice? Now I know the answer. Three weeks.”

“Did you come here to make me take the book down? Or to bring me back?”

Mom’s lips trembled. “We’re here to take you home…”

“Which home?”

She froze.

“The home where I don’t have a key? The home with four names on the itinerary?”

She didn’t answer. Because she couldn’t.

Dad inhaled deeply. “Vera—your father admits he didn’t… didn’t do right in the past. But you’re part of this family. That’s never changed.”

“Never changed?”

I pulled out my phone, opened the family chat, scrolled to the top.

“I’ve been gone half a year. Three hundred messages. Sherry’s competitions. Zach’s license. Your Miami photos. Not one about me. Not even ‘Where’s Vera?'”

The phone screen glowed between us. Dad dropped his gaze. For the first time, Mom had nothing to say.

A few passing students glanced over. None stopped. It was an ordinary afternoon. Havenport sun, sycamore leaves scattered on the ground.

“I don’t hate you.” I put the phone back. “It took me half a year to figure this out. You didn’t just fail to love me—you couldn’t. There was never enough love to go around. Sherry got it. Zach got it. There wasn’t anything left for a third.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t mine either. But I can’t keep waiting for a love that’ll never be mine.”

Mom finally cried—wiping her face with her hand, mascara streaking, looking nothing like the composed woman in the family albums.

“Vera—Mom never meant to—”

“I know.”

“Can’t you just come back?”

“No.”

Quiet. Clear.

“But I’m not running anymore. If you want to see me, come to Havenport. I’ll take you out. I have my own key now.”

Dad looked at me then—for the first time, really looked. Not that
vacant stare that went over my head. Not a passing glance. He saw
me. The daughter in front of him, no longer eighteen, no longer saying
yes.

“You grew up,” he said. His voice cracked.

“Yeah,” I said. “But not because of this family.”