The Daughter He Never Filmed Chapter 04

The Daughter He Never Filmed Chapter 04

Two hours until the submissions portal closed.

I didn’t borrow another computer.

Didn’t try to reach anyone.

Just sat in that chair, watching the sky outside turn dark.

Five years ago, my first day of college, Dad told me.

“A documentary director’s greatest weakness is sentiment,” he’d said. “You need to be as objective and detached as your lens.”

Five years.

I’d achieved absolute detachment.

Injustice?

I swallowed it.

Favoritism?

I stayed quiet.

Stolen opportunities?

I started over.

I’d almost forgotten.

Even lenses need filters.

Even lenses can get blown out.

My phone buzzed on the desk.

Mom had posted photos in the family group.

Cape Cod sunset.

Orange-red light flooding the sea.

Seraphina in a white dress, standing on the rocks, holding the top-tier monitor I’d waited three hours for.

Caption.

“Our little fairy’s first shoot for Four Seasons Journal. Light is perfect. Thanks to Director Vance for the hands-on guidance.”

Thumbs-up emojis from relatives.

My uncle sent a voice message.

“Seraphina’s got that star quality. Way better than her sister’s wooden personality.”

Mom replied with a smiling emoji.

Dad sent a red envelope.

Two hundred bucks.

Title.

“Everyone soak up some Seraphina fairy dust.”

I opened the photo.

Seraphina grinning at the lens, holding that monitor.

The screen was completely black.

Not even powered on.

Just a prop for a photo op.

And Dad didn’t hesitate for a second to take my last chance away for it.

I set down the phone and stood up.

From under the bed, I pulled out the gray suitcase I’d bought when I moved in freshman year.

Unzipped it and started packing.

I didn’t have much here.

Barely anything.

A few sets of black sweats and hoodies.

Used film books from secondhand stalls.

I stacked my notes and storyboards from four years neatly into the suitcase.

Then my eyes landed on the far corner of the desk.

A glass box.

Inside, a fountain pen Dad gave me when I won the city-wide essay contest at ten.

The only gift he’d ever picked out for me alone, without Seraphina tagging along.

Under it, a card from Mom.

“Elara, stay independent. You don’t need to envy anyone.”

Stay independent.

Don’t envy anyone.

Because I’d never have anything, so better not to want it in the first place.

I opened the glass box, took out the long-dried pen, and tossed it into the nearby trash.

Along with the yellowed card.

The room emptied fast.

Nothing but a bed and a table.

No trace anyone had lived here for four years.

After the last item, I zipped the suitcase.

At the door, I stopped.

Laid my keys and bank card side by side on the entryway shoe cabinet.

Found a blank sheet of paper.

Wrote.

“I’m dropping out of the pitch. The remaining five grand on the card is from my last freelance edit. Use it to buy Seraphina a filter or whatever.”

No greeting.

No sign-off.

Picked up my phone.

Blocked my parents, my sister, deleted and removed them everywhere.

Left every family group chat.

Pulled the SIM card.

Snap.

Broke it in two and dropped it in the trash.

I pushed open the door to my rental.

The hallway motion light flickered on, illuminating the stairs down.

Cold air rushed in and cleared my head like I’d never felt before.

Finally, I didn’t have to burn my life waiting for a single “complete.”

The suitcase wheels scraped against the stone pavement, fading away.

That night, New York’s sky had no stars.

But for the first time, the road ahead was crystal clear.