They didn't speak to each other for eleven days.
Eleven days in the same house. The same kitchen. The same staircase. The same walls. Two women living together who didn't look at each other.
Karen left for work before Staicie got up. Came home late. Ate alone in the kitchen. Went upstairs to bed without passing her daughter's room.
Staicie went to high school. Came home. Locked herself in her room. Ate cereal. Only came downstairs when she heard Karen's bedroom door close.
They were two ghosts in the same house.
Cyndi was the first to realize something was wrong.
"You look awful," she told Staicie one Monday morning.
"Thanks."
"Seriously. Have you been crying?"
"No."
"Staicie."
"Leave me alone, Cyndi."
Cyndi didn't let it go. Cyndi never let anything go.
"Is it the guy? The one you were seeing in secret?"
Staicie looked at her. For a long time. And for the first time in two months, she wanted to talk. To tell her everything. To put that weight down somewhere. On someone. On her best friend.
"If I tell you something, will you swear not to judge me?"
"I swear."
"You are going to judge me."
"Tell me."
Staicie inhaled. Exhaled. Closed her eyes.
"Jefferson. My mom's boyfriend."
Silence. Long. Terrible.
Cyndi opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"The... the photographer? The dark-haired guy with the lock of hair?"
"Yes."
"Your MOM'S boyfriend?"
"Yes."
"Staicie. No."
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Two months. It's over. My mom found photos on his computer."
Cyndi buried her face in her hands. Sighed. Straightened up.
"Photos of what?"
"Me. At the studio. In my room. At the beach."
"Oh my God."
"I know."
"Staicie, that's... that's..."
"Horrible. I know. You can say it."
Cyndi looked at her. And despite everything—despite the shock, despite the horror, despite wanting to scream—she saw her best friend's eyes. Red. Swollen. Exhausted. The eyes of a girl who hadn't slept in eleven nights.
"Come here," Cyndi said.
She pulled her into her arms. Staicie broke down. Cried. In the high school hallway. In front of the lockers. In front of everyone. She didn't care.
"I'm a monster," Staicie sobbed.
"You're not a monster."
"I slept with my mom's boyfriend."
"You're eighteen, and you made a colossal mistake. That doesn't make you a monster."
"My mom won't talk to me."
"She'll talk to you again."
"You don't know her."
"I know mothers. They always forgive. It takes time, but they forgive."
Staicie wiped her eyes. Sniffled. Looked at Cyndi.
"You don't hate me?"
"I hate you a little. But I love you more than I hate you. So it cancels out."
Staicie laughed through her tears. A wet, broken laugh, but a real one.
"Cyndi?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. But if you ever do something like that again, I'll kill you myself."
That evening, Staicie came home. Karen was in the kitchen. Standing in front of the sink. Her back turned.
Staicie stopped in the entryway. Looked at her mother's back. The back she knew by heart. The back that had bent over her crib, carried her when she was little, stood between her and the world.
"Mom."
Karen didn't turn around.
"Mom, please."
Nothing. Water ran in the sink. Karen washed a plate. The same plate for five minutes.
"I'm sorry."
The water stopped. Karen set down the plate. Didn't turn around.
"Sorry for what exactly?" Her voice was calm. Cold. Controlled. "Sorry for lying to me for two months? Sorry for sleeping with my boyfriend? Sorry for looking me in the eyes every night at dinner while knowing what you were doing behind my back? What exactly are you sorry for, Staicie?"
Every word was a knife wound. Precise. Surgical. Karen wasn't shouting. That was worse.
"Everything," Staicie whispered. "Everything, Mom."
Karen turned around. Her eyes were dry. No more tears. The tears were over. All that remained was the pain. Bare. Dry. Immense.
"Do you know what hurts me the most?"
"No."
"It's not Jefferson. Men come and go. I've lost others. I'll get over it."
"Then what is it?"
"It's you. My daughter did this to me. My daughter. My own blood. The person I trusted most in the world."
Staicie lowered her eyes. The tears came back. Silent.
"After Matthew," Karen continued, "I told myself: It's over. She understood. She won't fall into the trap of an older man again. She learned."
"Jeff isn't like Matthew."
"NO. He's WORSE. Matthew was a stranger. A predator. A bastard. Jefferson was MY man. In MY house. At MY table. And you knew exactly what you were doing."
Silence. The kitchen clock. The refrigerator humming. The world carrying on.
"Do you love him?" Karen asked.
Staicie looked up. Looked at her mother.
"I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Karen leaned against the counter. Crossed her arms. Looked at her daughter. For a long time. As if she were seeing her for the first time. As if she were searching for the little girl beneath the woman. The little girl who ran through the yard. Who drew pictures in preschool. Who slept with a stuffed rabbit.
"You're eighteen," Karen said. "You think you're a woman. You think you know what you want. But you're a child, Staicie. A child who confuses desire with love and what's forbidden with passion."
"Mom—"
"Let me finish. I'm your mother. I love you. I'll always love you. Even after this. Even after everything. Because that's what mothers do—they love their children even when their children break their hearts."
Staicie cried. Hard. Without holding back.
"But I need time," Karen said. "Time to forgive you. Time to forget the images in my head. Time to stop asking myself what was happening under my roof while I slept."
"Okay."
"And Jefferson never sets foot in this house again. Ever."
"Okay."
"And you don't see him again. Ever."
Staicie hesitated. For one second. Karen saw it.
"NEVER, Staicie."
"Okay. Never."
Karen uncrossed her arms. Opened them. Staicie ran across the kitchen and threw herself against her mother. Karen held her. Tight. Too tight. Like when she was little. Like when she was afraid of thunderstorms and came into her mother's bed.
They cried together. Standing in the kitchen. Mother and daughter. Broken. But together.
"Never again," Karen murmured into her daughter's hair.
"Never again," Staicie promised.
And this time, she meant it.
That night, Staicie picked up her phone. Opened her conversation with Jefferson. Dozens of unread messages. "Stace, answer me." "I'm sorry." "Can we talk?" "I miss you." "Please."
She typed three words.
"It's over, Jeff."
Sent.
Then she deleted the conversation. Deleted the number. Set the phone on the nightstand. Turned off the light.
In the next room, Karen lay in the dark. Eyes open. Her hand resting on the empty side of the bed. Jefferson's side. It still smelled like his cologne.
She closed her eyes.
Tomorrow would be another day.