That evening, Charlene tried again to approach the kids—even though all the hardships they had put her through were still fresh in her mind. It was already night, so she decided to bring them snacks while they played in Erica's room.
She carried three glasses of milk and a glass of apple juice—Erica's favorite, according to Manang Dores. She also had sliced apples and oranges arranged on a large tray.
At the door, she took a deep breath before knocking.
"Come in," Erica said.
She entered slowly, and the expressions on the kids' faces immediately changed when they saw her at the door.
"I thought you already ran away?" Erica asked sarcastically while sitting on the sofa, facing her siblings.
Charlene ignored her. She quietly placed the tray on the table.
"I know you're hungry," she said calmly. "So I brought you something to eat."
The kids looked at her without any emotion.
"Sorry, what?" Erica said coldly. "We can't understand you. Please speak in English." She crossed her arms.
Charlene forced herself not to show the hurt she felt.
"I… uh…" she hesitated. She knew she could speak English, but her voice trembled. "You should eat."
Her tone was a bit stiff, and that made the kids laugh.
"Your accent sucks." Erica pointed at the glass of apple juice and grabbed it.
Before Charlene could even react, she threw the juice into her face.
Charlene was soaked from head to chest.
"You deserve it," Erica shouted, her eyes burning with anger. "You will never replace our mom. Never. No one can replace her!"
Charlene remained silent, drenched, trembling, but still standing.
"I know," she said softly.
The kids were surprised.
"I will never try to replace your mom," she continued, struggling to control her voice. "I'm only here because I know you need someone. So I hope—"
"No."
Wency interrupted.
"We don't need you here," she said coldly. "No one needs you here. You should go, Charlene. Because you have no idea what we can do if you stay longer."
"We will make your life a living hell."
Charlene froze. She couldn't believe a sixteen-year-old could say something like that. There was no hint of joke in their eyes—serious, cold, and terrifying.
She paused for a moment, swallowed, and gently wiped her wet face with her hand.
"I will never leave," she said firmly. "If you want to drive me away, you'll have to try harder."
The kids were shocked.
"Good night," she said finally before leaving the room.
She returned to her own room and lay on the bed. She stared at the ceiling as everything that had happened replayed in her mind.
She wanted to leave. She was tired. Scared.
But she also felt pity for the kids.
She knew they weren't bad—they just lacked attention and love. That's why she wanted to change them, even in her own way, even for a short time.
And she couldn't leave.
Kerill's promise of one million pesos was a huge help. It was enough to reclaim the land they had sold to relatives, land that her mother had cared for long before her older brother was shot in Manila.
She couldn't back down.
"You can do this, Charlene," she whispered to herself, forcing herself to be strong.
She knew this was only the beginning of the hell she would face in every corner of that mansion.