When my dad remarried, I, Ellie June, was pushed out of the life I once knew. My room, my safety, even my future were taken, until I found a truth my stepmom never saw coming. In a home split by loyalty and betrayal, I had to decide how far I’d go to take back what was mine.
When I was little, Dad called me his brightest star. After dinner, when the sky turned deep blue and crickets chirped, he’d lift me up and carry me outside. He’d point to a twinkling star above and grin.
“See that one? That’s you, Junie. Even in the dark, you glow the brightest.”
I’d repeat those words to myself under the covers, like a guard against bad dreams.
After Mom died when I was 10, those words kept me afloat. It was just me and Dad then, patching up what was left of our world. I trusted him when he swore I’d always be safe.
That he’d look out for me, no matter what. But everything changed when he remarried two years later. Monica rolled in like a storm, with sleek hair, a too-big smile, and a son named Blake.
Blake was… strange, always nervous, like he was waiting for a signal he didn’t understand. Within a week of their wedding, she moved Blake into my bedroom. I came home from school to find my door open, my things already stuffed into boxes.
She stood in the middle of my room like she ran the place. “Wait,” I said, my backpack still on one shoulder. “What are you doing with my stuff?
I’m not giving it away.”
Monica didn’t even glance at me. “Ellie June,” she said, using my full name to get under my skin. “Blake’s moving in here.
He needs a proper bedroom.”
“But this is my bedroom,” I said, stepping inside. “That’s my quilt, Monica. And my—”
Blake hovered by the door, looking away.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“Your dad and I decided this, Ellie,” Monica cut in, ignoring Blake. “It’s just temporary.
You’ll get your own spot downstairs.”
“The basement?” My voice cracked. “You’re kidding!”
“We spruced it up for you,” she said, not looking up. I stood in the hallway, gripping my bag, heart racing as she packed my books.
I saw the rug I’d chosen with Mom, rolled up, and the quilt Grandma Ruth made, folded tight. My chest hurt. Each book hitting the box felt like another piece of my childhood being boxed up.
“Take your stuff downstairs,” she said coldly. “Move it, we’re busy.”
“Does Dad really know about this?” I asked, swallowing hard. “He’s fine with it,” she said.
“Blake’s a senior, Ellie. He needs a quiet place to study. You’ll manage.”
And just like that, I was sent away to a room that smelled of damp and gloom.
They’d tossed down a scratchy rug over the concrete and put up thin drywall around the pipes. It was a place you pass through, not one for dreaming. My bed?
A flimsy mattress on a shaky frame, barely a bed at all. While Blake settled into the room I’d grown up in, I cried myself to sleep under a ceiling that groaned every time someone used the upstairs bathroom. But I stayed quiet.
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