They are approaching the front door now. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. The front door has a high-end smart lock with a six-digit code. There is no key under a mat. No host to call. No front-desk receptionist. The lock is sleek and matte black, installed into the door like a secret.
They walk up with zero hesitation.
They don’t fumble. They don’t hesitate. They don’t question whether they belong here.
Linda steps up to the keypad, posture radiating confidence.
She punches in the numbers: 1-9-8-5-0-7.
My birthday.
July 5th, 1985.
The irony is thick enough to choke on. They are using the date of my birth to enter a house they banned me from. They likely assume the code was assigned by a rental agency or provided by some “contact” Linda claims to have used. They do not know I set that code remotely three hours ago.
I set it because I knew it was the only number my mother would never forget. Not because she cares about me, but because she has spent my entire life reminding me that giving birth to me “ruined her body.” She never let me forget the day she had to suffer for me. She used it like a receipt.
The lock whirs.
A cheerful chime sounds.
The small light turns green.
The door opens.
They freeze for a split second, surprised that it worked, and then a cheer goes up.
Kyle high-fives my father. Bridget squeals and claps. Linda turns back and waves the rest of the relatives inside like a queen granting permission.
They stream into the foyer.
I can see movement through the bay windows, bodies crossing the entryway, hands gesturing at everything. They’re reacting to the interior now. They’re seeing the floors, the painting, the kitchen island. The ocean beyond the glass.
Bridget runs to the window with her phone, filming her own reflection superimposed over the sea. For half a second she looks toward my car, and my heart gives a small strange jolt, a primal fear of being seen, even though I want to be seen.
But she doesn’t notice.
She sees only herself.
To understand why I’m sitting in a hot car watching my family occupy my home, you need to understand who Skyla Morales is supposed to be.
In my family, I am a non-entity. The extra person. The reliable one.
That sounds like a compliment until you realize it’s a role you can’t escape.
Growing up, my family operated like a system that never needed updating.
My mother, Linda, is the sun. The gravity. The emotional weather.
When she’s happy, everyone gets to breathe. When she’s unhappy, it becomes everyone’s job to fix it. Her displeasure is treated like a natural disaster. We respond to it automatically.
My father, Mark, is the master of avoidance. He is a good man in a theoretical sense, which means he goes to work and doesn’t hit anyone and sometimes says gentle things when Linda isn’t around. But he is a coward in the practical sense.
He learned early that the easiest way to survive was to agree with Linda, even when she was cruel.
Bridget, my older sister, is the star. She was born to be watched. She consumes attention the way fire consumes oxygen. Growing up, if Bridget had a recital, the world stopped. If Bridget had a breakup, the entire house went into mourning. She is loud, charming, exhausting, and when she’s not getting what she wants, she becomes sharp.
Kyle is the baby and the boy. In the Morales family, those two traits combined into immunity. Kyle can do no wrong. If he loses a job, it’s someone else’s fault. If he gets a ticket, the cop was unfair. If he disappoints someone, the other person is too sensitive.
And then there is me.
Skyla.
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