My name is Isabella.
I am thirty-four years old, and I live alone in a quiet apartment in a city three hours away from where I grew up.
The dining room was warm, smelling of roast chicken and expensive wine.
But the moment felt ice-cold.
My mother looked straight across the table at me.
She did not blink.
She just held out her open hand and said, “Isabella, give me your credit card. Your sister needs two hundred thousand dollars.”
I looked at my sister.
She was picking at her napkin, looking bored, waiting for me to fix her problems like I always did.
I looked back at my mother.
I took a deep breath.
“No,” I said.
The silence lasted exactly one second.
Then my mother’s hand moved.
She slapped me so hard that the heavy silver forks on the table rattled against the china plates.
My face burned instantly.
My ear rang.
But the worst part was not the physical pain.
It was looking at my sister.
She was not shocked.
She was not sorry.
She was smirking.
I stood up.
I did not scream.
I did not fight back.
I just walked out the front door into the night.
That was ten years ago.
I have not spoken to them since.
But tonight, at two a.m., my phone lit up.
Thirty-five missed calls from Mom.
They want something again.
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My name is Isabella.
I am thirty-four years old.
My phone was vibrating against the nightstand.
It was a harsh, angry sound in the quiet of my bedroom.
I rolled over and squinted at the clock.
It was 2:14 in the morning.
I live alone now.
I have a small, clean apartment in a city three hours away from where I grew up.
My walls are painted a soft cream color.
My sheets are crisp and white.
Everything in my life is organized.
Everything is quiet.
I like the quiet.
It took me a long time to get used to silence that was not filled with tension.
The phone buzzed again and again.
It was relentless.
I reached out and picked it up.
The screen was bright in the dark room.
I saw the name, and my stomach dropped like I was on a roller coaster.
Mom.
I stared at the name.
I had not seen it on my screen in ten years.
Below her name, there was a notification.
Thirty-five missed calls.
Thirty-five.
My heart started hammering against my ribs.
My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone.
Panic is a funny thing.
Even after a decade of freedom, even after ten years of building my own life, seeing that name made me feel like a scared little girl again.
I felt small.
I felt guilty.
I sat up in bed and turned on the lamp.
The light was yellow and warm, but I felt cold.
I wrapped my arms around myself.
Why was she calling?
Why now?
Why thirty-five times in the middle of the night?
In a normal family, thirty-five calls at two a.m. means an emergency.
It means a car crash.
It means a heart attack.
It means someone is dying.
But I do not come from a normal family.
In my family, an emergency is not always real.
Sometimes an emergency is just a weapon.
I did not answer.
I could not.
I put the phone face down on the mattress.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady my breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Just like my therapist taught me years ago.
I looked around my room.
I looked at the books stacked neatly on my dresser.
I looked at the painting of the ocean I bought last year with my own money.
I looked at the heavy curtains that kept the world out.
This was my space.
They were not allowed here.
But the phone kept buzzing.
It was like a drill pressing into my brain.
I thought about blocking the number.
I should have done it years ago.
But a small part of me, the part that was still trained to be obedient, hesitated.
What if someone really was dead?
What if it was my father?
My father was the only one I ever missed.
He was weak, yes.
He never stood up for me.
But he was not cruel like them.
He was just defeated.
I picked up the phone again and stared at the screen.
The buzzing stopped for a second.
There was silence.
Then a text message popped up.
Isabella, pick up. It’s an emergency. It’s your sister.
My sister, Elina.
Of course it was about Elina.
It was always about Elina.