The Empty House

Jill entered, and the hallway light turned on, casting a soft glow across the polished floorboards. The door slammed shut behind her, its weight imposing more than the sound it produced. She didn't bother to call out; she already knew the answer.

Jill Andrew appeared to be moving even when she was standing still. At twenty, she was tall and slim, with an elegant awkwardness that suggested she hadn't yet matured into her limbs. Her dark locks, clipped just above her shoulders, clung to her face in the moist air, a few strands sticking to her cheeks as if the mist had kissed them there. Her skin had a smooth, warm almond sheen, and her large brown eyes appeared to absorb everything around her—sharp, attentive, and guarded, as if she had already learnt not to demand too much from people.

She placed her school bag beside the staircase and kicked off her sneakers without glancing up. Her blazer hung awkwardly off one shoulder, partially unbuttoned. She stood there for a long while, like someone trying to remember the reason for coming home.

From the kitchen came the warm scent of garlic and something baked, along with a voice she knew better than her own.

"Welcome home, Jill. Long day?"

Anna Cole stood by the stove, wearing her regular pale blue apron with flour splattered across the front. She was in her early sixties, medium height, and had a hard but soft physique. Her skin was a smooth cocoa brown, and her hair was pulled back into a tidy bun. Her face was round, and her eyes, gentle but piercing, had learnt to study everything gently. She had been with the family for years, apparently as a housekeeper.

Jill exhaled through her nose and gave a brief nod. "Yeah. Just tired."

She glanced around the living room—clean, quiet, impersonal. No shoes by the door. No laughter upstairs. Nothing out of place. That kind of order always felt like a warning.

"Is anyone home?" she asked, already knowing.

Anna shook her head. "Your dad is still in Germany for that tech summit, and your mom left early this morning for Toronto. She called just before boarding the plane."

Jill's lips tightened. I've always assumed so; they're always working. This is all they ever do.

Anna didn't respond immediately. She approached the oven and lowered the heat. The kitchen lights bathed her in a gentle and familiar glow.

"I made dinner," she offered. "Chicken lasagna. Sweet corn salad, too. Thought it might cheer you up."

Jill was already moving toward the stairs. "That is nice of you. But I'm not hungry."

"You shouldn't go to bed with nothing in your stomach," Anna said, her tone even. "I'm here to look after you while they're away. That's the deal."

Jill stopped halfway up, one hand resting on the Bannister. She turned back slightly, her face shadowed under the soft hallway light, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Are you going to force me?"

Anna raised an eyebrow and offered a faint smile. "No. But if you skip dinner, I'll feel like I haven't done my job."

Jill studied her for a moment, then sighed. "You mean well, Anna. I get that. And I do appreciate it. But I can take care of myself."

Anna nodded once. "Anything else I can do for you tonight?"

Jill hesitated. Her shoulders dropped, and her voice lowered.

She looked down at the floor and then back up, her eyes softer than before.

"Yeah. There is one thing."

"I'm listening."

Jill's voice became sharp, clear, and harsh. "Speak to my parents. Please. Tell them I am exhausted. I'm tired of this house. I am tired of the silence. I no longer want their gifts. I want them back home."

Her voice raised slightly, trembling more from fury than tears.

"I want them here!" he yelled, her frustration mounting.

Anna's expression softened, but she gazed vacantly as if she had heard this before and couldn't resolve it.

"Jill," she said, "you know I can't make them come home."

Jill's jaw clenched. "Then stop pretending any of these matters."

She turned around and walked the remaining stairs, her steps intense and rapid. A door slammed upstairs.

Later That Night

Anna knocked quietly on Jill's door. Once. Then again.

She waited a few moments before carefully opening the door.

Jill lay on her bed, one leg stretched to the side, her phone throwing a soft, cold glow on her face. She did not look up.

"May I come in?" Anna asked.

"Come in, Anna," Jill responded.

Anna walked in and sat carefully at the edge of the bed. The room smelled faintly of perfume and lemon polish. The television in her room was on, and the volume was low. Everything was in its place—except Jill.

"I know you're hurting," Anna said after a long pause. "And I wish I could fix it."

Jill kept scrolling through her phone. "They think money equals love," she mumbled. "Those gifts can't make up for their absence."

Anna did not argue. She never did, anytime she broached the subject and conveyed her deep anguish.

"I don't remember the last time Mom hugged me," Jill added. "Or Dad kissed me goodnight." They send stuff. Things I don't even ask for. And they believe that's enough.

"You've told them how you feel?" Anna asked.

"I've tried. I wrote Letters and sent Messages. I once left a voicemail while crying the whole time. You know what they sent back?" She laughed bitterly. "A thumbs-up emoji."

Anna's face didn't change. She just listened.

"Maybe this weekend," she said quietly. "Your mom said she'd be back on Saturday."

"She said that last time, too," Jill responded.

Jill shifted and rested her head on the wall. "She's constantly competing with Dad. It's like a crazy contest to see who can make the most money. She always says, 'I'll earn more this quarter than your father earned last year,' echoing her mother. "Like that's something to be proud of."

"She still might come home. You could try again," she added.

Jill turned her glance away. "I hate feeling this way, but I hope she will." "Whenever..." she blinks quickly, like she's resisting what she didn't want to say. "Whenever I hear the garage door open, I believe it is them. But it is always you."

She looked back at Anna now, eyes bright and sad.

"And I do love you, Anna. You're the only one who's here. Always," Jill spoke softly.

 She leaned in and wrapped her arms around her.

"Thank you. For staying," Jill Said.

Anna embraced her warmly and firmly. "You don't have to thank me," she said. "I'm here because I care and see you as a daughter."

Jill nodded.

Anna stood, brushing her hands together gently. "I'll let you rest."

She exited the room.

Jill's gaze shifted to the photographs on her nightstand. Her fifth-grade graduation, a fuzzy photo of her on a beach in Spain. Her parents were also in the frame—young, smiling, and bathed in sunlight. She barely recognised anyone anymore.

The room was stuffed with everything they sent her: a new tablet yet to be opened, a limited-edition watch, and trainers that had never been worn.

She stared at the movie she had been watching, but wasn't paying attention. Her thoughts were somewhere else. Her longing was quiet and didn't demand attention. It just lingered quietly, waiting to be touched.

She tightened the blanket around her and closed her eyes, not to sleep, but to remember something that once felt like home.

And somewhere deep inside her, despite everything, a small voice whispered:

Maybe this time...