It wasn't Miley.

Betty walked up to me, holding a paper bag. "Ms. Miley said you left these behind, Lia."

There was pity in her eyes.

"She's been carrying the Jenkinsons on her back all these years. It hasn't been easy. Don't hold it against her. Once she comes around, she'll take you back," she added.

I gave a silent nod.

Leaving those things behind wasn't an accident. It was my way of keeping the door open, of giving myself a reason to return to Miley.

After 19 years as sisters, we knew each other too well. She saw right through my little game, and this time, she didn't want to play along.

One time after school, I got distracted chasing a puppy into a maze of abandoned buildings and ended up completely lost. I sat on the floor, crying my eyes out.

Mom and Dad were working overseas at the time. They couldn't answer my calls. It was Miley who searched for me for hours, flashlight in hand, refusing to give up until she finally found me.

She wrapped her arms around me and held me close, whispering, "Don't be scared, Lia. I'll always be here for you."

After that day, Miley would come running every time I called her name. But now, she'd really left me behind.

I clutched the paper bag in one hand and my suitcase in the other.

Without warning, the sky darkened. Lightning split the clouds, thunder cracked overhead, and then the rain came, pouring down in heavy sheets.

In no time, I was completely drenched, standing helpless in the downpour.

The rain tore through the paper bag. Everything spilled out, scattering across the ground, where they lay soaked and stained.

Crouched there, I couldn't tell anymore if the wet streaks on my face were tears or just the rain.

One by one, I picked up the fallen items and tossed them into the nearest trash bin. Things that got dirty were meant to be thrown away, just like me.

Miley tossed me aside, too.

Swallowing the bitterness in my chest, I flagged down a cab and left.

I went back to the old house where our family had lived years ago. It still held all the memories from the days when we were a happy family of four.

That was why Mom and Dad never sold it, even after they'd made enough money to move into a villa.

Instead, they hired someone to keep it clean and well-maintained.

I punched in the passcode—my birthday—and pushed the door open.

Inside, everything was clean and quiet. I took a hot shower, then crawled into bed and pulled the covers up around me. They still carried the faint scent of Mom, wrapping around me like a hug as I drifted off to sleep.

For once, my dreams weren't haunted by fear—no terrifying glimpse of the counselor's face, no rats gnawing at me in the isolation room, and no searing pain from batons cracking against my skin.

I was jolted awake that evening by the sharp slam of a door.

Miley was standing at the foot of my bed, her voice like ice. "Delia, who said you could come back to the old house? This is my home now. Get out!"

Still dazed from being ripped out of sleep, my head was spinning. My face was hot to the touch. I was burning up. I tried to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse croak.

When I didn't move, she snapped, her tone sharp with impatience. "Hurry up. Pack your stuff and get out. Don't make me throw you out myself."

Grinding my teeth against the ache in my body, I forced myself to get up, pulled on some clothes, and dragged my still-unopened suitcase toward the door. Just before stepping out, I stopped.

I swallowed hard against the burn in my throat and gave Miley a pleading look. "I'm sick, Miley. Just let me stay one night. I'll leave first thing tomorrow."

She didn't even hesitate. "No. Cut the act. I'm not buying a single word out of your mouth."

I dragged my suitcase into a random motel and popped a fever reducer I'd picked up from the shop downstairs. Then, I collapsed and passed out cold.

I slept straight through the day, lost in nightmares that kept replaying every blow. When I finally opened my eyes again, the sky outside was streaked with the bleeding colors of sunset.

I didn't step outside for days. I ordered takeout when I was hungry and crashed whenever the exhaustion hit.

It took an entire week just to shake off the brutal routine they'd drilled into me at that residential treatment center.

Every single day, I reminded myself that no one was going to hit me or scream at me for no reason anymore. I was safe now.

I was lying on the bed, zoning out, when my phone buzzed with a text.

"I heard you're back, Delia. It's my birthday tonight. I'm treating everyone to dinner. Are you free to come?"

The message was from Uncle Bernard back home—the same man who once threatened to destroy Miley's reputation and take our family's property. That was before I beat him so badly he ended up in the hospital.

Just as I was about to ignore it, another text came through, this time with an address attached.

"Miley's coming too." It was a threat.

That night, I showed up right on time for dinner.

The private room was already packed. Along with Uncle Bernard's family and Miley, there were a few unfamiliar faces, probably his usual mix of shady friends.

Miley shot me a cold glance. Then, she turned away and started chatting with Uncle Bernard's daughter like I didn't even exist.

I slid into a corner seat, keeping my head down and my mouth shut.

As dish after dish landed on the table, Uncle Bernard was the first to break the silence.

"Since it's my birthday, I figured I'd invite as many relatives as I could, especially you, Delia. It's been a year. You've changed a lot, dropped a ton of weight."

He let out a booming laugh, then pointed a finger at his youngest son, Timothy Jenkinson. "If I'd known residential treatment centers were that good at trimming people down, I would've packed Tim off with you!"

Timothy immediately shot back, loud and defiant, "No! That crazy center got exposed ages ago. The counselors there know countless ways to torture you. Only idiots still fall for their lies. I'd rather die than get sent there!"

Aunt Suzanne quickly clamped a hand over his mouth, flashing an apologetic look. "Sorry, my son hasn't quite figured out when to keep his mouth shut."

Timothy shoved her hand away and glared at her. "What do you mean 'keep my mouth shut'? Just pull out your phone and look it up! And Delia's been stuck in that place for a whole year. Why don't you ask her? She's the one who actually survived it."

With that, his eyes darted to me.

"Just look at Delia. It's the middle of summer. We're all in shorts and T-shirts, but she's covered head to toe. She's got to be hiding bruises or scars or something!"

The moment the words left Timothy's mouth, every pair of eyes in the room snapped to me—some curious, some pitiful, others flat-out dismissive.

I kept my head down, teeth digging into my lip, too scared to say a word.

Then, Miley broke the silence, her eyes narrowing on the way I clutched my sleeve. "Delia, is what Timothy said true?"