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My parents had only girls. Three, to be precise. Each of us interested in our own things, but my dad had other plans. He wanted a boy after my twin sisters, which led to my mother refusing to have another baby. She was done with what it entailed to carry a child. The pains, the aches, and everything in between.
My father disapproved of her decision, even though she was the one who would be carrying the baby. He fought and fought, but it was never his choice to make. He has been resentful ever since. Once he finally mustered up the acceptance of never having a boy, he decided he would let one of his girls take over the business one day.
That daughter being me.
Since I’m the oldest, I take on the weight of being the disappointment. Luckily enough for my twin sisters, Chanel and Cleo, my father didn’t get to have an opinion on their dreams.
Breaking out of my thoughts, I hear a knock on my door, expecting precisely who’s behind it.
My sisters.
Chapter2
Violetta
Cleo and Chanel, dressed as polar opposites, stand before me. Since I moved out of the family house, they love to come and raid my fridge when bored. But the biggest reason of all—they want to avoid the constant verbal fights between our parents.
I understand them. I wanted to get away at their age as well. That’s one of the reasons why I welcome them with open arms, apart from the fact that I love having them around.
The constant fighting between Mom and Dad can sometimes be too much to handle. For a while, you just stand by the door and eavesdrop, trying to figure out what they are fighting about.
But then it becomes constant enough to worry.
The concern that they won’t be together anymore. It’s a threat to the mind, a threat that stays in our brains and hearts.
It’s been a battle I face every day. God knows I don’t want my sisters to experience that pain. So I give them a place to hide for a few hours. Even if that means having to go grocery shopping after they leave.
Walking past me and into the kitchen of the small apartment I call home, Cleo goes straight to the fridge.
“Hello to you too,” I tell them, seeing Cleo sticking her head out from behind the metal door so that the refrigerator no longer blocks her view.
“Hi,” she says simply before going back to intently looking for food.
“Sorry, she’s a bit out of it at the moment,” Chanel tells me while walking over to the kitchen island where she sits on a barstool.
“What do you mean?” I ask her, hoping it’s not what I’m thinking.
“You know…” She pauses, trying not to say the word. Seeing my confusion, she huffs out a breath before speaking. “She’s high.”
I immediately still. I had a feeling, but I was hoping I was wrong.
Cleo’s face is still hidden behind the door, but her shoes are facing the kitchen island where Chanel is sitting on the barstool.
A few seconds later, Cleo’s face peeks back into view. She looks at me, worried, before giving me a hesitant wave. That’s when I bolt after her, chasing her through my apartment.
Which in turn gives her little space to run away.
Her black zip-up hoodie is lifting up behind her as she runs away from me in her colorful neon crystal-encrusted Dr. Martens.
I want to murder her.
I know about the whole weed movement; I acknowledge that it is one of the harmless drugs. But even so, she’s my baby sister. If she had returned back to our house in Polanco, my parents wouldn’t have even noticed or probably cared.
But that’s the thing about me being their big sister.I care.
If I have to be the bad guy sometimes, so be it.
I don’t want my sister falling into a hole of dependency. There’s a difference between recreational and addiction. Chanel may know that line in her very organized life, but Cleo’s whole life has been structured on dependency.
