Chapter 4- The house was too quiet when Lila got home. Her father’s truck was in the driveway, which meant he was inside—probably in his recliner, beer in hand, the television blaring some angry news anchor or a rerun of a war documentary. The porch light flickered overhead, casting a pale yellow glow that made the peeling paint on the door look even more tired. She stood on the porch for a full minute, her hand on the doorknob, willing herself to breathe. The air was thick with October chill, and her breath curled in front of her like smoke. Her fingers trembled against the metal knob. She had to tell him. She couldn’t hide it forever. And if she didn’t say it now, she never would. The door creaked open. The living room was dim, lit only by the flickering blue light of the TV. Her father didn’t look up. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke clung to the air like a second skin. “You’re late,” he muttered. “I had an appointment,” she said quietly. He grunted. “You’re always running around. Never home. Never helping. Just like your mother.” Lila flinched. He always said that—like it was a curse. Like her mother’s memory was something sharp and shameful. She remembered the way her mother used to hum while folding laundry, the soft lullabies at bedtime, the smell of lavender and lemon. Her mother had been light. Her father was a shadow. She stepped into the room, her voice trembling. “Dad… I need to tell you something.” He took a long sip of his beer, still not looking at her. “What now?” “I’m pregnant.” The words hung in the air like smoke. For a moment, there was only the sound of the television and the clink of his bottle against the armrest. The news anchor’s voice droned on about rising gas prices and political unrest, but it felt a thousand miles away. Then he turned. His face was stone. His eyes narrowed. “What did you just say?” “I’m pregnant,” she repeated, her voice steadier this time. “I’m sixteen. And I’m going to have a baby.” He stood up slowly, the bottle still in his hand. His movements were deliberate, like a storm gathering strength. “You little—” Lila took a step back. Her heart pounded in her chest, loud and fast. “You think this is some kind of joke?” he growled. “You think you can just throw your life away and drag this family down with you?” “There is no family,” she said, her voice rising. “It’s just you. And me. And you’ve hated me since the day I was born.” His face twisted. “Don’t you dare—” “You blame me for Mom dying,” she said, the words spilling out now, hot and sharp. “You’ve always blamed me. But I didn’t ask to be born. And I’m not going to apologize for being alive.” He raised the bottle like he might throw it—but then he stopped. His hand trembled. His face crumpled for a split second, then hardened again. The moment passed like a flicker of humanity, swallowed by rage. “Get out,” he said. “What?” “You heard me. Get out of my house.” “Dad—” “You’re not my daughter anymore.” Lila stared at him, her heart pounding. She waited for him to take it back. To say something—anything—that didn’t feel like a knife to the chest. But he didn’t. He turned away, sat back down, and turned up the volume on the TV. The sound of gunfire and shouting filled the room, drowning out everything else. Lila stood there for a moment, frozen. Then she turned and walked out the door. The night air hit her like a slap. It was colder now, the wind biting at her cheeks. She didn’t cry. Not yet. She just walked—down the street, past the gas station with its flickering neon sign, past the church with the broken marquee that still read “God is Love,” until she reached Maya’s house. She knocked once. The door opened, and Maya’s mom stood there in her robe, her eyes widening when she saw Lila’s face. “Sweetheart,” she said gently. “Come in.” Lila stepped inside, and the warmth of the house wrapped around her like a blanket. The scent of cinnamon and laundry detergent filled her nose. Somewhere in the kitchen, a kettle whistled. She was homeless. She was pregnant. And she was free.
