As soon as she reached the entrance to the living room, she heard Flora's voice and immediately hardened her expression. Was she still there? Would she never leave? When Branca had returned home after enrolling in university, she saw Flora through the window and decided to enter through the back, spending as much time as possible hiding by the pool's edge.

She needed to pack her things into the car and begin her "journey" to the other side of the Mississippi River, where she would live with her father and be closer to Circus, the pub where she had worked for five years.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped onto the staircase. She knew Flora would be able to see her, so she quickened her pace, taking the steps two at a time. But even so, it seemed Flora was faster, already at the foot of the stairs, calling out to her—or rather, yelling.

"Amelia!" The name made her shudder, and she almost lost her balance.

"Don't call me that."

"Call you what? By your name?"

"It's not my name."

"As far as I know, I'm the one who chose and registered that name." Turning her back on the woman, Branca continued up the stairs and into her room.

There were four boxes—four times she would have to go up and down those stairs with Flora screaming... She didn't see a quick or easy solution to this situation.

"I'm your mother, do you understand that?" Flora stood in the doorway of Branca's room, her face red, probably with anger, not from running up the stairs.

"Unfortunately," Branca said, grabbing the first box, "but that doesn't mean I consider you my mother."

"Watch how you talk to me!"

"Or what? You're going to kick me out?" She laughed at her own joke, pressing the box against Flora, forcing her way through by pushing the box forward.

"I'm the one who paid for your education. Do you think you got into that university on your own? It was because I sacrificed myself for you."

"Sacrifice?" Branca leaned the box against her leg, feeling anger rise within her, but she couldn't let it take over. "I don't remember a single moment when you sacrificed anything for me."

"The food you eat, the clothes you wear, the car you're about to put all this crap into—that was all me! My money! Everything you have is mine!"

"Then shove it up your ass! You want this crap? Take it!" She threw the box against the wall behind the woman, climbing the stairs to face her head-on as she yelled. "You're not my mother. You were never there for me, and you never will be. You're selfish, egotistical, and shallow. You," she pointed a finger at her, feeling her body inch closer to Flora, "you chose to be where you are now, you chose to do everything you did. Or do you think I'm going to forget what happened between us? Your words, your silence when I needed you the most? You providing me with food, clothes, and a roof over my head—that's just your duty as the one who gave birth to me. But as a mother? You've never been one."

She couldn't remember when she started yelling, much less when Alvin grabbed her by the arm, pulling her into the room and shoving her. She fell to the floor, instinctively using her wrist to cushion the fall, but only felt the pain of the impact.

He had definitely not measured his strength, and she knew it was intentional. Even though he had let go of her, the pressure of his hand on her arm lingered, and his force had driven her straight to the floor.

She heard Flora being taken to the master bedroom and then tried to take a deep breath, as the psychiatrist had taught her. Everything around her seemed to spin, and she broke out in a cold sweat. The pain in her heart throbbed in her chest, causing her to pound it with her clenched fist for fear it might stop beating altogether.

She grabbed the remaining three boxes, one by one, leaving them by the front door, then ran to the kitchen to let Danette know she was leaving.

Danette tried to convince her not to go, not in this state, having seen her limp as she entered and left the kitchen. But with the key in hand and preparing to load the car, Branca tried to show that she was well enough to flee that house.

She tried to start the car, but it didn't work the first time. She wiped her hands on her thighs and tried again, accelerating and reversing as quickly as she could.

Twenty minutes separated her from her father's new apartment. Her agitation made the trip feel like it had lasted over two hours. No music, no radio, no distractions—she wanted to be as far away from that nightmare as possible.

Remembering the sensation of the man's grip on her arm, she felt tears welling up in her eyes. She couldn't cry, not now, not while driving.

The fear she should have felt at that moment now overwhelmed her heart and crushed it; her body trembled, and the knot in her throat grew tighter.

She couldn't arrive at her father's house in this state; she didn't want to have to talk to him. She hated Flora with all her strength, and while her relationship with her father wasn't bad, it wasn't good either.

There was a lot of history between the three of them, but her father had never hurt her the way that woman had.

According to the address stored in her phone, she was on the right street; she just needed to find the building. She looked to the left and saw a five-story building, the top floor a duplex, the only one with a different appearance. To the right was a three-story building with a modern look.

"That's the one..." she muttered, parking the car. She leaned back in her seat to better observe the building's architecture, as if it would pull her back to the present, out of the crisis she was in.

She decided to focus on the details, using the building as a shield for her emotions. The glass balcony hung suspended, creating a large overhang at the entrance. The exterior was a light brown with exposed black beams. It was pleasant, and she could enjoy these last days of summer there.

Looking at the street ahead, she grew tired of trying to deceive herself, knowing she wouldn't escape the crisis so easily. She gripped the top of the steering wheel with both hands and rested her head on it, crying as much as her lungs would allow. The pain in her body was immense, and her memory dredged up the worst recollections she had during moments like this.

She wished the treatment would be effective now that the dosage had increased. She felt fragile and had told the psychiatrist as much, who, from the look she gave Branca, seemed genuinely concerned about her mental health.

When she felt she couldn't cry anymore, she opened the sun visor and used the mirror to fix her appearance. Her eyes were smaller than usual, the brown much darker, and she was grateful she hadn't worn makeup. Her nose was red and stuffy, and she worried it would be obvious she had been crying from the sound of her voice.

Grabbing her phone, she searched for her father's number and waited for him to answer, which he did quickly, as if he had been expecting her.

"I'm here."

"Are you in the car?"

"Yes."

"Alright, I'll open the garage. Stay alert."

"Okay." She hung up, started the car, and saw her father appear on the third-floor balcony, waving with the remote in hand.

As she parked, she silently prayed that everything would go smoothly. If fate were kind to her, her father wouldn't come down to help her, but it was too late; she saw him not only descend but already standing beside the parking space where she should park, having used the emergency stairs to reach her faster.

The sound of the trunk closing echoed in the garage, which now had only five cars; it seemed each floor was allotted two parking spaces.

To her surprise, as soon as the elevator opened, Bach hummed softly. With his help, they brought the boxes inside and stood side by side, watching the door close quickly, the kind of swiftness only new things had.

"Is the building new?" She didn't bother taking off her sunglasses, even though they were far from the sun's rays. She wanted to buy as much time as possible for her body to recover.

"Yes."

"Cool," she whispered, unsure how to talk to her father, and at that moment, she just wanted not to make things more awkward than they already were.

As soon as they entered the apartment, they were greeted by the kitchen and living room. White walls, light wood floors, equally light-colored furniture, but with brightly colored upholstery.

The space was open-concept: the kitchen took up the wall of one of the bedrooms, with white built-in cabinets, a sink, and an inset cooktop. In front of the cabinets was a white wooden island on wheels with three tall red stools.

After the kitchen was the living room, with no divider, featuring a beige rug, a navy-blue sofa, a wooden coffee table with some college books, and a TV mounted on the wall. On both sides of the sofa and the TV were vases with various plants.

The balcony door was in the living room. It was made of glass and slid to the left. The balcony had an L-shaped wooden sofa with white cushions, a red round coffee table, more plants decorating one corner, and the most beautiful feature: the glass balcony windows. They were slits along the sides that ran from ceiling to floor, making the space incredibly airy.

Everything was incredibly clean and well-organized. The difference in style between her father and Flora was striking.

For the woman, luxury was what she most desired to have around her.

Expensive furniture, costly decorations, plenty of marble, and fine fabrics. Branded, pricey clothes. She dressed to show off how much she earned and took pride in the envy she stirred in those who couldn't have everything she did.

The Sartre house was designed on the edge of a lake and even had two swimming pools—one heated, in the basement of the house, and another near the lake. It was the only house on the street that had actually built an access to Lake Farr.

Her father was never home long enough to show who he really was. Work was his true last name.

"Come, I'll show you your room," he said, guiding her to the hallway next to the kitchen.

Three doors.

The room behind the kitchen was her father's. At the end of the hallway, there was a bathroom, and the door across from her father's room was hers.

He opened it, and she peeked inside.

It wasn't large, and the walls were equally white. There were two windows that stretched from ceiling to floor, and between them, a mirrored white wardrobe. The bed was a double, with a black bedspread. There was nothing else in the room.

"I'm not good with decorating, sorry."

"It's perfect like this." The boxes were placed at the foot of the bed, and she put her hands on her hips.

"I'll let you settle in, okay? If you need anything, I'm..." He pointed toward the kitchen and then left.

She was grateful that her father was reserved and quiet, hoping that living there with him would be her fresh start. What kind of father would ask his daughter to take off her sunglasses at home?

With her wardrobe organized and books stacked by the window, she sat on the bed and found it extremely comfortable, throwing herself onto her back and closing her eyes.

She felt everything tingle as if she had spent hours swimming. She swore it felt like being underwater, her hearing blocked by the water, and the sensation of floating.

When the alarm went off on her phone, she searched for her medication and realized she hadn't seen it at any point.

"No..." She opened the boxes again just to confirm they were empty. "Damn." She remembered the box she had left behind with her things.

Seeing her father grabbing some pots, she ran her hand through her hair and cleared her throat to get his attention.

"I'm out of my medication; I need to go buy some."

"Wait, I'll go with you." He went to the coffee table, grabbed his wallet, and opened it, pulling out a prescription. "This is the most recent one, right?" He handed it to her, and Branca read it, noticing it was dated last week.

"How did you get this?"

"Your treatment is strong. Dr. Teresa thinks parental involvement is important."

"Fatherly involvement," she corrected, handing the prescription back to him. "Shall we go?"