The front door clicked shut behind Alice, the familiar silence of the house greeting her like an old, unwelcome friend. Her private tuition had run late till 10.30 pm. She dropped her bag by the staircase, her shoulders aching from the weight of textbooks and the heavier burden of the day's lessons.
The house was unusually quiet. No hum of the television from the living room. No clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Just the soft creak of the floorboards beneath her feet as she ascended the stairs.
Her bedroom door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling into the hallway. Alice pushed it open and froze.
Her mother sat on the edge of her bed, her posture stiff, her hands folded in her lap over a thick leather-bound book that Alice had never seen before. The photograph album looked old, its edges worn and faded, its spine cracked with age.
"Mom?" Alice's voice came out smaller than she intended. "Is Dad asleep?"
Her mother nodded, her eyes never leaving Alice's face. "Yes. He's been out for hours."
Alice stepped into the room, her eyes fixed on the album. "What are you doing in here? I thought we agreed—"
"I didn't snoop." Her mother's words came quickly, defensively. "I swear, Alice. I didn't go through any of your things. I just... I wanted to talk to you. I was waiting for you to come home."
Alice studied her mother for a long moment. The woman's face was drawn, tired, with dark circles under her eyes that matched the ones Alice saw in her own mirror every morning. There was something fragile about her tonight, something that made Alice's chest tighten with an emotion she couldn't quite name.
"Thank you," Alice said finally, her voice softening. "For not going through my stuff. I appreciate it."
Her mother offered a weak smile. "I meant what I said. I'm trying to respect your boundaries like you asked of me."
Alice nodded, then excused herself to the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face and hands, watching her reflection in the mirror. Her skin was pale, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever conversation awaited her.
When she returned, she settled onto the bed beside her mother, tucking her feet beneath her. "Okay. So why are you here? What did you want to talk about?"
Her mother didn't answer immediately. Instead, she opened the album in her lap, her fingers tracing the first page with a reverence that made Alice's skin prickle with unease.
"I found this in the cabinet," her mother said softly. "I'd forgotten we even had it."
Alice leaned forward, her curiosity warring with the dread coiling in her stomach. The first page was filled with photographs she vaguely recognized. There was Alice at three years old, her face smeared with cake icing, her grey eyes wide with delight. Next to it, a photo of her at her mother's wedding, dressed in a frilly pink dress that she'd apparently hated based on the scowl on her tiny face.
"Look at this one," her mother said, flipping the page. "You were six years old, and you'd just won the junior basketball championship. Do you remember?"
Alice studied the photograph. Her younger self stood triumphantly on a podium, a gold medal around her neck, her ponytail lopsided, her grin missing two front teeth. The image stirred something in her chest—a flicker of warmth, quickly smothered by the chill that always accompanied memories of her childhood.
"You were so gifted," her mother continued, her voice tinged with something that might have been pride or might have been envy. "Always winning. Always excelling. Such a natural talent. Nothing like me."
Alice's jaw tightened, but she kept her eyes on the photographs. She didn't react to her mother's words. She couldn't. Because if she did, she would have to acknowledge the bitterness that lurked beneath them, and she wasn't ready for that.
Her mother flipped through the pages, pointing out more photos. Alice at a school spelling bee, her expression intense and focused. Alice at her eighth birthday party, surrounded by friends she could no longer remember. Alice at the county fair, holding a giant stuffed bear she'd won by throwing darts with uncanny accuracy.
"Your time was the greatest time of my life," her mother murmured. "So much potential. Do you remember much of it?"
The question hit Alice like a slap. Her blood turned to ice in her veins, and the warmth she'd felt moments ago vanished entirely. Her childhood. Her mother wanted to talk about her childhood—the worst time of her life. The years of pain, of confusion, of watching her family crumble around her while she fought to keep herself from breaking apart.
"Wait a second," Alice said, her voice tight. She climbed off the bed and crossed to her desk, her hands trembling as she opened the medicine box. She retrieved her anti-anxiety pills and swallowed one with a gulp of water from her water bottle. Then she returned to the bed, making herself comfortable with deliberate care.
Her mother watched her, concern creasing her brow. "Was that necessary?"
"Frankly?" Alice met her mother's eyes, and she let the mask slip for just a moment. "My childhood was not a cakewalk, Mom... the album doesn't show everything. Talking about it—really talking about it—would be tough without me snapping. So yes, the pill was necessary."
Her mother sighed, a heavy, weary sound that seemed to carry decades of regret. "I know," she said softly. "I know it wasn't easy for you. But you're an adult now, Alice. You understand how things work—and how they don't."
Alice didn't respond. She stared at the album in her mother's lap, waiting.
Her mother flipped through the pages, her pace slow and deliberate, until she reached the very end. The photographs there were different—grainier, older, clearly cut from newspapers. Alice's breath caught in her throat as she recognized the faces.
Damian's parents. Damian's mother, her smile wide and warm. Damian's father, his arm around his wife's shoulders. And Damian himself, a chubby-cheeked child with a gap-toothed grin and unruly dark hair.
There were other photos too. The Rainer family. The sprawling estate Alice had never seen in person. And then, at the very back of the album, a photo of a young girl with violet eyes, her expression solemn, her face too thin for her age.
Alice's mother stared at the image for a long moment before she spoke.
"I told you I ran away from Rainer House," she said quietly. "But I never went into too much detail. I think... I think it's time you knew the whole story."
Alice looked at her mother, her heart pounding. "Okay," she said. "I'm listening."
Her mother took a deep breath, her fingers still tracing the edge of the photograph.
"When I was a child," she began, "I was diagnosed with some sort of mental disease. I found it very hard to talk to anyone for a very long time. I wouldn't speak. I couldn't. The words were there, but they felt... locked inside me, like prisoners in a cage."
Alice listened, her own childhood memories pressing at the edges of her consciousness. She understood that feeling all too well.
"It wasn't until a nanny was hired to help me with speech and therapy that I slowly got better," her mother continued. "She was very kind, very patient. An experienced nurse who'd worked at some sort of mental institution for children. She was the first person who ever made me feel... seen."
Her mother's voice cracked slightly, and she paused to compose herself.
"My parents barely spent any time with me," she went on. "They were always too busy. But the nanny—she was always there. Taking care of me. Reading to me. Teaching me how to speak, how to express myself. And I remember, sometimes, walking past my sister's room with her, and seeing my parents inside. Spending time with Margaret."
She said the name like it was a curse.
"She was sick," Alice said cautiously. "Wasn't she? Your twin sister. Margaret was always sick."
"Yes." Her mother's voice was flat now, emotionless. "She was sick. She was always sick. And they spent all their time with her. All their attention. All their love. And I was left with the nanny."
Alice watched her mother's face, seeing the flickers of pain and resentment that danced across her features.
"Then one day," her mother continued, "I went to my parents' bedroom on my own. I don't remember why. I just wanted... I wanted something. Their attention, maybe. Or just to be seen. And I said my first words. 'Hello mother, I am Violet.'"
Alice's breath caught. She'd never known. Her mother had never told her this.
"My mother was happy," Violet said, her voice bitter. "But my father—he was drunk. He was always drunk. He shouted at me to get out. And my mother... my mother sided with him. She shouted at me too. Told me to leave before things got bad."
Alice felt her throat tighten. She thought of her own childhood, her own parents. The shouting. The fear. The sense of being invisible even when she was standing right in front of them.
"I didn't let it hurt me too much," Violet said, almost to herself. "I was used to it by then. But then, a few months later, my mother fired the nanny. She said her job was done—I could talk now, so I didn't need her anymore."
Violet's voice cracked again. Alice saw her mother's hands begin to tremble.
"But Margaret still had her nanny," Violet continued, her voice hard now. "She still had nurses attending to her around the clock. And I couldn't understand it. Why did she get special treatment? Why did she get everything, while I got nothing?"
She paused, taking a shaky breath.
"So I went to see her one day. My sister. I'd never actually seen her before—they kept her hidden away. And when I walked into her room..."
Violet's eyes grew distant, lost in the memory.
"She was so thin," she whispered. "A pale, gaunt body. Skin and bones. Her face was hollow, her eyes sunken with dark circles. And her head—her head was completely bald. Her room was like a hospital. There were machines everywhere. Beeping. Whirring. The nanny was there, changing her IV drip. And Margaret was just lying there, too weak to move."
Alice felt her stomach turn. She had never heard her mother speak about her childhood like this. Had never seen her so raw, so vulnerable.
"I didn't know where to vent my anger," Violet said. "I was so angry. So jealous. But when I looked at her—at my sister, so broken and helpless—I couldn't stay angry. I just... I let it go. And I started visiting her every day. Praying for her. The nanny told me it would help, and I believed her."
She smiled bitterly.
"Margaret and I barely talked. She was too weak. But there was a pull between us. Something I couldn't explain. And every time I walked past her room, I felt like... like I had to go in. Like I owed her something."
Alice sat in silence, her heart aching for the little girl her mother had been.
"I spent most of my childhood cooped up in Rainer House," Violet said. "Or in the hospital with Margaret during emergencies. I went to a special school for children like me—those with social or emotional issues. My parents didn't visit me often. Only my mother, and only when Margaret was in the hospital."
Her voice grew quieter, heavier.
"It wasn't until I was fifteen that I realized what was really happening," she said. "My parents used to take me to the hospital. They'd talk to a doctor, and then the doctor would make me lie down behind a curtain. They'd give me an injection, and then I'd fall asleep. And when I woke up, I'd have a bandage somewhere on my body. Sometimes my arm. Sometimes my leg. I'd stay at the hospital for a few days, and then go home."
Alice felt the blood drain from her face. "They were taking your organs right?"
Violet nodded, her expression hollow. "My blood. My tissue. Everything they could use to keep Margaret alive. She was dying, and they were using me to save her. I didn't know about this until I met your dad and he told me what it really meant."
Alice's hands were trembling. She thought of Damian, of his desperate attempts to save his mother. She thought of the lengths people would go to for the ones they loved. But this... this was something else entirely.
"One time," Violet said, her voice barely above a whisper, "I had a terrible itch all over my body after one of the surgeries. It was unbearable. I scratched and scratched until I was bleeding, and they had to hold me down. Nurses. Doctors. So many hands on me, holding me still. I screamed until my throat was raw."
Tears were streaming down Violet's face now. Alice reached out and took her mother's hand, her own tears threatening to spill over.
"It was horrifying," Violet said. "After that, I was terrified of doctors. Of hospitals. Of anyone in a white coat. I used to wet myself in fear whenever anyone mentioned the hospital."
She laughed bitterly. "And my parents became monsters. They beat me everytime for not wanting to go. I refused, and they... they hit me until I couldn't stand. And then they dragged me to the car and took me anyway."
Alice's heart was pounding. She thought of her mother, so broken and isolated, and she felt a wave of anger wash over her—not at her mother, but at the people who had hurt her. At the family who had used her like a spare part. The real demons.
"On my sixteenth birthday," Violet continued, "I became very rebellious. I started sneaking into the kitchen and stealing alcohol from the fridge. I'd smoke cigarettes when my parents weren't home. I'd borrow them from my school friends or from the maids, in exchange for money that I stole from moms purse or dads wallet."
She paused, and a strange, almost shy smile crossed her face.
"The Rainer estate had a stable full of horses," she said. "The men who took care of them were mostly over fifty, except for one. A boy. He was eighteen, his name was Malcolm. And he was... he was the first person who made me feel like I mattered."
Alice saw the shift in her mother's expression. The softening around her eyes. The slight curve of her lips.
"Whenever I was sick or unhappy, I'd go to the stables," Violet said. "And Malcolm would be there. He'd be mucking out the stalls, or brushing the horses down, or repairing tack, or carrying bales of hay. He was always doing something. But he always had time for me."
She laughed softly. "I'd tell him I wanted to run away, and he'd laugh at me. He'd say, 'Where would you go, Violet? The world is big and scary.' And then we'd dance. He'd swing me around the stable yard, and I'd sing to him. It was... it was the first time I'd ever been truly happy."
Alice smiled despite herself. She could picture it so clearly—her mother as a young woman, carefree and in love.
"One night," Violet said, her voice dropping, "we got too intimate. He kissed me, and I got shy and ran away. But Malcolm... Malcolm was greedy. He wanted more. And soon after, he moved into the house to work as a butler."
The warmth in Violet's voice faded.
"Margaret got better around that time," she said. "She was healthier. The doctors said she was cancer-free. The whole house celebrated—everyone except me. I was happy for my sister, but I felt... invisible."
She took a deep breath.
"Margaret started going to school for the first time. And I started my nursing degree, in a college outside the country. I was gone for three years. The house was too suffocating to stay."
Violet's eyes grew distant again.
"When I came back, everything was different. Malcolm was the head butler. Most of the old maids were gone. And Margaret... she had become absolutely gorgeous. My father was smiling for the first time in years. The whole house was brighter. More hopeful."
Her voice hardened. "And I was still the invisible one. The black sheep. The daughter who'd been a freak as a child."
Alice squeezed her mother's hand. "I'm sorry, Mom. That sounds awful."
Violet nodded, her jaw tight. "I had Malcolm, though. And I thought that was enough. I thought he loved me."
She paused, and Alice saw the pain flash across her face.
"Then the marriage proposals started coming. Proposals for Margaret. Every eligible man in the county was lining up to marry her. And I... I couldn't take it. Even on our birthday, Margaret would cut the cake because she'd survived cancer. I was always an afterthought."
Violet's eyes met Alice's.
"I had silent outbursts in my room," she said. "I'd drink and smoke and cry. I felt so... unseen. So unloved. And one night, Malcolm took me to an inn to make me feel better. I thought it was a date. I thought he was finally going to prove that I mattered to him."
Her voice cracked.
"He wanted to sleep with me. And I... I was so desperate for affection, for love, that I let him. We slept together, and I came home late that night. The whole house was in chaos. My parents were furious. Only Margaret took my side, but I couldn't even look at her. I was too jealous. Too enraged at being the butt of the joke for my whole life."