By the time the sun began to dip behind the neighboring rooftops, painting the sky in streaks of soft amber and fading blue, Zaria had completed every single task on Sarah Jackson's list.
The kitchen gleamed from her scrubbing. The bathroom tiles were spotless. The living room smelled faintly of disinfectant, and even the hallway had been swept clean. The jerrycans were full. Dinner was simmering. Everything had been done to near perfection—not because she wanted praise, but because the cost of forgetting even one thing was always too high.
Sarah stood at the mirror by the door, adjusting her earrings. Her perfume—sharp and artificial—had already filled the small living space.
"You better have cooked that rice properly. If I find anything raw when I come back, you'll eat it straight out the pot," she warned, slipping on her low heels.
"Yes, ma'am," Zaria replied quietly, her eyes focused on the floor.
Mary Florence bounced down the stairs, laughing into her phone and twirling like she was walking a red carpet. Her tight lavender dress clung to her curves, and her hair had been styled high with gel that still dripped at the edges.
"You made juice, right?" she said, pausing in front of Zaria. "Add a slice of lemon to mine when I get back. Not too much sugar, or I'll spit it out."
"I'll do that," Zaria murmured.
Claire Rina strutted in behind her, adjusting her tiny handbag and rolling her eyes. "Ugh, can't believe we're going to Miss Kendra's birthday again. Hope she got money this year."
"Shut your mouth, Claire," Sarah snapped. "She invited us. Just behave."
Zaria stood quietly as they gathered at the door.
Before leaving, Sarah turned to her with the usual list of final instructions. "Clean up after yourself. Make sure that food doesn't burn. And don't even think about touching what's in the fridge. Wash those utensils and sweep the backyard before we get back."
"Yes, ma'am," Zaria said again.
Claire blew a sarcastic kiss in her direction before heading out the door. "Have fun being the maid!"
The door slammed, and just like that—they were gone.
Zaria didn't move at first. She stood frozen in the center of the room, her fingers trembling slightly from exhaustion and tension. The only sound left was the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional creak of the old wooden floor.
She waited another full minute, just in case one of them forgot something and returned. When no one did, she finally exhaled.
She was alone.
For the first time in what felt like forever, the house belonged to her. Not in ownership, but in presence. The silence wrapped around her gently, like an old friend sneaking through the window after dark.
Her stomach grumbled, reminding her of what she had worked so hard for.
She made her way to the kitchen and lifted the lid from the pot on the stove. The steam escaped in a warm rush, carrying with it the scent of seasoned beans and fluffy rice. She had made enough for the family, as required—but tonight, she didn't wait for permission.
Carefully, she served herself a plate—not too much, but enough to feel like she mattered. She added a spoonful of the stew she'd made, then poured a small cup of juice from the leftover batch that Claire hadn't noticed. She sat at the table—not the floor—and took her first bite in silence.
Every spoonful was a reminder that she was still human. Still worthy of dignity, no matter what the walls of this house tried to tell her.
She ate slowly, savoring it—not just the food, but the peace.
Once finished, she washed the plate and glass, wiped the counter, and double-checked every corner of the kitchen. Everything had to look untouched. Immaculate. She'd learned long ago how to leave no trace.
Then, instead of wasting the moment on the broken television or lying down to rest, Zaria slipped quietly into her small room. She bent near the mattress and pulled out a drawstring cloth bag. Inside were her schoolbooks—bent and faded—but loved.
It was the holidays, but Zaria didn't allow herself to fall behind.
She laid the books out on the floor in a neat row—Math, English, and Science. Her red pen had long since dried out, but she still used it to underline key points in her English notes. Her pencil was worn down to half its size, sharpened slowly with a kitchen knife whenever she got the chance.
She started with Math—long division, fractions, and word problems. The questions were difficult, but familiar. She used the margins to show her work, whispering the steps under her breath.
In English, she reread comprehension passages, correcting her earlier answers. Words like resilient and determined stood out, as if they had been written just for her.
Then she turned to the last notebook. It wasn't for any subject. It was for her dreams, thoughts, and secret wishes.
On the first page, she had once written:
> My name is Zaria Johnson. I want to be someone. I don't know how yet. But I will.
She read the line again and smiled faintly. Not because her life had changed—but because something inside her was changing.
She flipped to a blank page and wrote:
> Today, I cooked. I ate. I studied. I wasn't shouted at.
The house was silent. I felt like I was real.
I don't know when I'll feel this way again—but I want to remember that I did.
She paused, then added:
> One day, this won't just be a holiday.
It'll be my life.
She carefully folded the pages closed, tucked everything back under the mattress, and adjusted her bedding.
The sky outside was now completely dark. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Laughter echoed from another home—maybe the party they had gone to. But in her little corner of the world, all was still.
Zaria lay down, belly full, mind fed, soul quietly burning.
And as she closed her eyes, she whispered the promise she made to herself every night:
"I'm going to make it out. I'll become more than this."