Roxie came home with grass stains on her knees, dried sweat on the back of her neck, and Zac’s football tucked under her arm.

Her cheeks hurt from smiling.

She kept trying to stop, but the whole game kept replaying in her head and ruining her attempt at being normal. Bianca Reeves had eaten grass in front of half the school. Kendall had actually thrown her the winning pass. Zac Prescott had almost hugged her in the end zone before remembering the whole town had eyes, phones, and no mercy.

So he gave her a handshake instead.

A stupid handshake that still made her fingers warm when she thought about it, which was pathetic because it was just a handshake. People shook hands with dentists. Guidance counselors. Old men in bank commercials.

Still, Roxie had held onto that football all the way home like it meant something.

Maybe it did.

Roxie bit the inside of her cheek before the smile got worse.

Then she opened the front door.

The smell hit her hard.

Cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, old alcohol.

Her stomach dropped so fast it almost made her dizzy.

Claire was home.

Roxie stopped in the doorway with her hand still on the knob.

Her mother sat on the couch under the yellow lamp like she had never left. One leg bounced hard against the cushion, her hair was falling out of its messy knot, and a cigarette burned between her fingers above an already full ashtray.

Two empty glasses sat on the coffee table while a game show laughed quietly from the TV, like anything about this house was funny.

For one second, Roxie did not move.

A week.

Claire had been gone for a week.

A whole week of no calls, no texts, no checking if Roxie was alive. A week of Roxie sleeping with a chair shoved under her doorknob. A week of checking the window Zac had fixed every night before bed. A week of keeping her phone beside her pillow because every sound outside made her body go stiff.

Now Claire looked up and snapped, "Where were you?"

Roxie stared at her.

Her fingers tightened around the football until her knuckles hurt.

"Are you serious?"

Claire’s face twisted. "Don’t start."

Roxie stepped inside and slammed the door. The loud bang made her own shoulders jump, but she did not back down. The lamp flickered, and Claire’s eyes narrowed like Roxie was the problem.

"No," Roxie said. Her voice came out rough. "You don’t get to disappear for a whole week and then ask me that."

Claire stood up too fast and grabbed the back of the couch. Her hand shook around the cigarette. "Watch your tone."

Roxie laughed once. It sounded ugly even to her.

"My tone?" She dropped her cheer bag near the door, but she kept the football pressed tight against her ribs. "You left me here alone for a week after Steve tried to force his way into my room."

Claire flinched, barely, then hid it behind a hard look. "Roxxane."

"Don’t." Roxie pointed at her with her free hand. "Don’t use my full name like you suddenly remembered you’re my mother."

Claire’s mouth opened, but Roxie did not let her speak.

"I had a chair under my door every night. I checked the window every night. I kept my phone on my pillow every night. And you did not call once."

Claire grabbed one of the empty glasses from the coffee table and threw it toward the kitchen. It missed the sink and smashed against the cabinet. Glass scattered across the floor in bright little pieces.

Roxie flinched hard.

"Nice," Roxie said, voice tight. "Real normal, Mom."

"You think this is funny?" Claire yelled, pointing at her with the cigarette. Ash fell onto the carpet.

"No. I think you’re high or drunk. Maybe both." Roxie’s stomach twisted, but she kept her voice sharp because if she softened, she would start crying, and Claire did not deserve that yet. "I stopped caring which."

Claire snatched the ashtray like she wanted to throw it too.

Roxie’s body tensed.

For a second, neither of them moved.

"I was fixing your mess," Claire snapped.

Roxie’s mouth went dry.

"My mess?"

Claire wiped under one eye with her knuckle, smearing mascara across her cheek. "Steve’s gone."

Roxie blinked.

For one second, she thought Claire meant dead, and something mean in her almost felt relief. If Steve was dead, at least he could never touch her window again. But Claire would be louder if he were dead. She would be screaming, throwing herself around the house, blaming Roxie before anyone checked for a pulse.

So gone meant gone.

"Good," she said. Her hands started to shake, but she let them. "He deserve hell more."

Claire’s face turned red. "You ruined everything."

Roxie stepped closer. Her cleats left dirt on the floor, and for once, she did not care. Let the house look like a field. "I ruined it?" Roxie asked. "Steve ruined it when he came to my window in the middle of the night."

"Stop saying it like that."

"That is what happened."

"You don’t know what he was doing."

Roxie stared at her mother until her eyes burned.

"He reached into my room," Roxie said. "I had a knife in my hand because I knew he was not there to talk."

Claire looked away.

Roxie’s throat tightened. "Look at me."

Claire did not.

"Look at me," Roxie repeated, louder. "You saw the window. You saw the chair. You saw Zac’s bloody hand. You saw all of it, and the first thing you asked was where Steve was."

"You don’t know what I was doing!"

"I know you were not here for me," Roxie shouted.

Her voice cracked, but she kept going. She was tired of being careful. Tired of swallowing things because Claire was too fragile, too high, too angry, too busy loving men who turned their eyes on Roxie and then blamed her for noticing.

"You chose him," Roxie said. "You called me a liar. You called me a slut. Then you walked out to find him."

Claire’s face twisted. "Do not put words in my mouth."

"You said them."

"You were sneaking boys into your room."

"Zac came because I called him."

Claire laughed, sharp and mean. "Of course you did."

Heat rushed up Roxie’s neck. She pressed the football tighter against her side because she wanted to throw it, and she refused to give Claire the only good thing she had brought home.

"He came because I was scared," Roxie said. "He came because you did not wake up."

"I was asleep."

"You were passed out."

Claire grabbed her cigarette pack and threw it at her.

It hit Roxie’s shoulder and fell to the floor.

Roxie barely felt the sting. She looked down at the pack, then back at Claire.

"That’s what I get for telling you the truth?"

Claire’s lips trembled. For a second, she looked like she might cry. Then she sucked in a breath and turned cruel again.

"Steve told me what you’re really like."

Roxie went still.

Claire stepped out from behind the coffee table. There was broken glass near the kitchen and ash on the carpet, but Claire walked like none of it mattered. Her eyes dragged over Roxie’s hoodie, her shorts, her dirty knees, the football tucked under her arm.

"He said you walk around here in those little shorts," Claire said. "Those tight shirts. Acting like you don’t know what men see."

Roxie’s face burned.

She hated how fast it got to her. Hated that one sentence could make her feel twelve and dirty and exposed in her own house. Hated that she had spent years pulling her hoodies down, crossing her arms, checking hallways before walking to the bathroom, and somehow Claire still made it sound like Roxie had invited it.

"Shut up," Roxie said.

"He said you made him uncomfortable."

Roxie’s stomach turned.

Her fingers dug into the football.

"You believe that?" she asked.

Claire looked away.

Roxie stepped closer, shaking so hard now she could feel it in her jaw.

"No. Look at me when I ask you." Roxie’s voice rose. "You believe him? You believe the man who came to my window over your own daughter?"

Claire’s mouth trembled. "He would not leave for no reason."

Roxie stopped breathing for half a second.

That was it.

Not a yes. Not exactly.

Worse.

Claire had built a whole answer around not having to say the ugly part straight.

"So you believe him," Roxie said.

Claire’s eyes flicked back to her. "You are the reason he’s gone."

Roxie’s chest hurt.

"I’m your daughter."

"You are the reason everyone leaves!"

Roxie stepped back before she meant to. Her heel hit the bottom stair, and the football shifted under her arm. She grabbed it tighter, both arms wrapping around it now.

Claire stood in the middle of the living room with mascara smeared under her eyes, cigarette smoke around her, and broken glass glittering on the kitchen floor.

"You have always made my life hard," Claire said. Her voice dropped, which made it worse. "Always."

Roxie swallowed. Her throat felt thick.

"Mom."

"I had plans." Claire pointed at herself, the cigarette shaking between her fingers. "I had a future. I had people who wanted me. I had a body that was mine."

Roxie’s face tightened.

Claire kept going, breathing hard now. "Then I got pregnant with you."

Roxie did not move.

Everything in the room kept going like nothing had happened. The TV kept muttering. The lamp kept buzzing. Claire kept breathing through her nose like Roxie was the one hurting her.

"I gave everything up," Claire said. "Everything I could have been. And you stand there judging me like you did not ruin me first."

Tears stung Roxie’s eyes before she could stop them.

She hated that.

She hated crying while Claire was still standing there with that look on her face. Like saying it had made her feel better. Like Roxie was supposed to hear it and finally understand why her mother had never been able to love her right.

"I did not ask to be born," Roxie said.

Claire’s mouth tightened.

"I did not ask for any of this." Roxie’s voice shook badly now, but she forced it out. "I did not ask for Steve. I did not ask for your men. I did not ask to sleep scared in my own room because the person who was supposed to protect me was too gone to hear me scream."

Claire looked away.

Roxie wiped her face with the back of her hand. It did nothing. The tears kept coming.

"I just wanted you to care about me," she said. "Once. Not Steve. Not some guy who uses you and throws you away. Me."

Claire said nothing.

Roxie laughed, but it broke halfway.

"You could not even do that."

Claire’s face hardened again. "Do not play the victim."

Roxie stared at her.

For a second, she had no words. Her mother had thrown glass, thrown a remote, thrown cigarettes at her, blamed her for Steve, blamed her for being born, and still somehow Roxie was the one playing.

She nodded slowly.

"Okay."

Claire blinked. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Roxie shifted the football higher against her ribs and picked up her cheer bag with her free hand. Her legs felt weak now. The anger was still there, but it had started turning into something heavier.

"I’m going upstairs."

Claire scoffed. "Run away. That’s what you do."

Roxie stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

Her hand tightened around the strap of her bag. Her face was wet, her throat hurt, and the football was still pressed against her like she could keep the field with her if she held it hard enough.

Then she turned around.

"No," she said. "That’s what you do."

Claire’s face twisted. "You make it sound like you’re innocent."

"I’m just a child." Roxie’s voice cracked, but she kept looking at her. "What do you want from me? Do you want me to say I’m sorry Steve left?"

Claire stared at her.

The room got quiet except for the TV.

Then Claire said, "Yes."

Roxie went still.

That hurt differently.

Claire could scream. She could throw things. She could call Roxie names and blame her for everything wrong in the house. But that one word made the last bit of hope inside Roxie go quiet.

Her mother wanted an apology.

Not for leaving Roxie alone.

Not for bringing Steve into the house.

Not for choosing him.

For losing him.

Roxie wiped her face again and nodded once, more to herself than Claire.

"You never changed," she said. "I was stupid for hoping you would."

Then she climbed the stairs before her knees gave out.

She made it to her room, shut the door, and locked it.

For a few seconds, she stood there with one hand on the knob and the football trapped against her chest. Her breathing came too fast. Her fingers hurt from holding on. Her shoulder stung where the cigarette pack had hit her. Her throat kept pulling tight like her body wanted to make a sound before she was ready.

Then the sob came out.

Roxie covered her mouth with one hand, but it did not stop. She slid down the wall beside her bed and curled around Zac’s football, pressing her wet face into the leather. It smelled like grass, sweat, and the field. Like the win. Like Zac’s truck. Like the good part of the day she had carried home before Claire got her hands on it.

Downstairs, something crashed.

Roxie flinched and hugged the football tighter.

Claire screamed Steve’s name.

Roxie squeezed her eyes shut. Her phone sat on the bed, close enough that she could see the edge of it from the floor. She should text Zac. She could type three words, and he would come. Maybe not even three. Maybe just his name.

That was the problem.

He would come.

Roxie knew it, and knowing it made her cry harder because she wanted him there so badly it scared her.

Another crash came from downstairs.

Roxie pressed her forehead into the football and tried to breathe through the sobs. Her body would not stop shaking. Her shoulder hurt. Her knees hurt. Her chest hurt worse.

She had won today.

For two hours, she had been the girl people cheered for. The girl who caught the pass. The girl Zac Prescott looked at like she had done something amazing.

Then she came home and became the girl her mother blamed for everything.

Downstairs, Claire kept breaking things over the man who had tried to get into Roxie’s room.

Roxie curled tighter around the football and cried until her throat burned.

For once, she did not tell herself to stop.