The first thing Max felt was heat in her head. Not a fever… not exactly pain… just this dull, dragging weight like her brain had been stuffed with cotton and regret.
Her eyes peeled open slowly. The ceiling fan spun lazily above, and the AC hummed low, chilling her legs. She sat up halfway—then dropped back onto the pillow with a sharp groan.
*Hangover.*
Dry mouth. Heavy limbs. Dizzy spells.
It was official.
Which somehow made it all worse.
She clutched her head and squeezed her eyes shut, letting the flashbacks hit.
Sneaking out.
The street lights as she walked out of the gate.
The party.
The alcohol.
Laughing.
Nick.
That… soft smile. His voice close to her ear.
But then—
The yelling.
Her mum's voice outside the house.
Michael trying to cover for her.
Angela dragging her into the car.
The *scene*.
Her dad's *face*.
That disappointed, quiet stare. The kind that cut deeper than any words could.
The smile that had started to form on her lips at the thought of Nick disappeared.
She stood up shakily, turned off the AC, and pulled on her shorts. Her hoodie stayed untouched. No need to wear it—her shame was enough cover.
She stepped out of her room quietly, her eyes falling on her parents' door. For a moment, she thought about going in. About apologizing. Explaining.
But then she remembered.
The yelling.
The disrespect.
Even as the last born—*the baby of the house*—she knew some doors had to be knocked now. Some respect had to be earned again.
So she backed away from the door.
Not today.
She was still standing there, frozen in front of the door, trying to decide if she could even knock—if she had the right to—when it opened.
The sound made her jump.
Angela stood in the doorway, arms crossed. No words came out at first, but her face said everything.
That look—
Disappointment.
Sadness.
Worry.
And a quiet, simmering anger.
Max felt her heartbeat skyrocket. She could barely breathe.
*"Good morning, Mum…"* she said, voice small, cracking at the edges, layered with guilt.
Angela didn't respond immediately. Her eyes scanned Max slowly—up, down, lingering on the tired face, the wrinkled nightwear, the guilt.
Then, finally—
*"So you've remembered your manners this morning, abi?"*
Her tone was clipped. Cold. No warmth.
Max opened her mouth but nothing came out.
Angela didn't wait. She stepped aside.
*"Come in."*
Max's stomach sank. That was it.
The judgment day she'd been dreading.
She knew it was all over now.
She stepped into the room slowly, like she was walking into a courtroom.
No one had to tell her—this wasn't just a 'talk.'
This was *the talk*.
And she was guilty on all counts.
Angela shut the door behind her. Not slammed. Just firm. Final. Max stood by the edge of the bed, her arms folded like they could hold her together.
Angela didn't sit. She stayed standing. Towering. Silent for a few seconds too long. Max kept her eyes low, suddenly hyper-aware of how dry her throat was.
*"So this is who you're becoming?"* Angela said at last. Her voice wasn't loud, but it struck sharp.
Max flinched.
*"Mum, I—"*
Angela raised a hand. *Not yet.*
*"You lied. You snuck out. You drank. You caused a scene. And you looked me in the eye and told me you were sick."*
Max's eyes stung.
*"I didn't mean—"*
*"You didn't mean to disappoint me? Or you didn't mean to get caught?"*
Silence.
Angela's voice broke a little.
*"Do you know what it did to me to see you like that? Alcohol !!!even if you're 18 Slurring. In public. In front of people who know our family."*
Max finally looked up. Her voice cracked:
*"I just wanted one night. One night to hangout forget everything ."*
*"So you forgot your values too?"* Angela snapped. *"Forgot your dignity? You forgot your family?"*
Max's anger flared, too fast.
*"I'm not perfect, Mum! You think grounding me every time will fix me? I'm not a child anymore!"*
*"Then act like it!"* Angela shot back. *"You want to be treated like an adult? Start behaving like one!"*
The silence after that was heavy. No more shouting. Just breathing. Heavy, uneven breathing.
Angela sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, tired now. Disappointed more than angry.
*"You broke my trust, Max. It's not just about the party. It's the lying. The sneaking. The pretending. Do you know how dangerous it is out there?"*
Max wiped her face quietly.
Angela looked at her—really looked.
*"You're grounded."*
A pause.
*"No work. No phone. No going out. Till further notice ."*
Max nodded slowly, biting her bottom lip hard.
*"Do you understand me?"*
*"Yes, ma."*
Angela stood and walked toward the door, then turned slightly.
*"And Max?"*
Max looked up.
*"Don't let this be who you become."*
Then she left.
Max sat on the edge of the bed, head in her hands. Her entire world felt cracked down the middle.
She'd never seen her mum look so… tired.
And that was somehow worse than the anger.
Max didn't want to just leave it like that. As soon as her mum stepped out, she followed, barefoot on the cold tiles, heart pounding against her ribs.
*"Mum—"* she called gently.
Angela didn't stop walking.
*"Mum, please, just listen to me."*
Angela turned around at the corridor, arms folded.
*"What else is there to hear, Max?"*
Max hesitated, her throat dry but her chest tight with everything she'd been holding in.
*"I'm eighteen now,"* she said, voice rising slightly. *"I'm not a baby anymore. You say I should act like an adult, but when I try to live a little, you act like I've committed a crime!"*
Angela narrowed her eyes. *"A little? You call sneaking out and getting drunk *a little*?"*
*"I didn't even get *that* drunk, mum! Just tipsy. It wasn't even—"*
*"You LIED."* Her voice boomed through the hall. *"You looked me in the eye and lied. What part of *that* is adult, Max?"*
*"Because I knew you'd say no!"* Max burst. *"You always say no! You want me to act grown but never *be* grown. I'm not five anymore, I'm—"*
*"Old enough to drink?" Angela cut in, stepping closer. "To sneak out? To disgrace your family in public?"*
*"Mum—"*
*"Do you know how *stupid* you looked?! Do you know how many eyes were watching? Do you know—"*
*"Can you stop and just hear me for once?!"* Max shouted, fists clenched. *"I just wanted to feel normal for once! To breathe! And if I took one drink, it doesn't mean I'm reckless, or ruined, or—"*
*"Enough, Max!"*
Michael appeared in the hallway, sensing it spiraling.
*"Mum, Max, just calm d—"*
But before he could finish, Angela turned sharply—and slapped Max.
It wasn't the hardest slap in the world. But it was sharp. And unexpected. The *sound* echoed more than the pain.
Max stood frozen, one hand over her cheek, eyes wide.
Michael stared, stunned.
*"Mum..."*
Angela was breathing hard. Max's lips trembled.
Angela's voice was quieter now, but colder than ever:
*"Never raise your voice at me in this house. Never."*
Max blinked fast.
No tears. Not now.
She turned, slowly, walked past Michael—without a word—and back into her room, closing the door behind her.
And for the first time, she didn't feel like the last born.
She felt stranger ''
The sound of the slap echoed like thunder.
Max froze. Her hand flew to her cheek, hot and stinging, her heart thudding in her ears.
Silence.
Even Michael stood still, eyes wide.
Angela's chest rose and fell sharply, as if even she was shocked by what she'd just done.
Max didn't say a word. She couldn't. Her throat locked up.
She turned and walked out, slow at first—then faster, almost stumbling to her room.
Angela remained in place for a second, then pulled out her phone with trembling fingers.
She called David.
"Come home," her voice low but breaking. "Come home now."
Meanwhile, Max had collapsed onto the floor of her bathroom, hands shaking. The tears didn't come immediately.
But when Michael slipped in quietly, shut the door, and sat beside her, she looked at him—and broke.
She sobbed into his shoulder, her body wracked with silent gasps and trembling.
Michael held her, not saying anything for a while. Just stayed.
And that's when it hit her. Not just the slap.
But the weight of everything—
The sneaking out.
The alcohol.
The yelling.
The disappointment.
"I really messed up," she choked, voice barely there.
Few minutes later David came back ...went straight
David didn't go straight to Max's room.
He turned and walked into the master bedroom where Angela sat on the edge of the bed, her back turned, shoulders tense like she was holding in more than just words.
The door clicked shut behind him. She turned slightly when she heard him enter—and as soon as she saw his face, something in her broke.
"I hit her, David," she said quietly, voice cracking. "I actually hit our daughter."
David didn't say anything at first. He just sat beside her and pulled her into a hug. That was all it took for Angela to let go. The tears came, slow but hot, as she leaned into his chest.
"She pushed me. Not physically—just... her words. Her face. The way she shouted. It was like she wasn't my Max anymore."
"She made a mistake," David said gently, "and so did you."
Angela nodded silently. "I know. But she's never seen that side of me before."
Meanwhile, upstairs, Michael was still in Max's room, sitting beside her on the bed. She was curled up with her head against the wall, eyes red, face blotchy.
They both heard the front door open earlier—and now the familiar tone of their father's voice downstairs.
Max stiffened.
Michael stood slowly. "That's Dad."
"I know," she mumbled.
"I'll go say hi. Try not to freak out. Just... breathe."
He left quietly, making his way downstairs. He found David in the living room just as he was coming out of the master bedroom, Angela behind him.
"Dad," Michael greeted.
David gave him a firm nod, "Michael."
"Just wanted to say welcome, sir." He glanced back at Max's room. "She's... not okay."
David sighed. "She will be. Come. Let's talk to her."
Michael followed him as they both headed back upstairs. The door creaked open, and Max sat up quickly.
She saw her father enter, with Michael behind him. Her heart raced.
"Maxwell Adebayo " David said, using her full name—never a good sign.
She swallowed. "Yes, sir."
He looked at her carefully. "You pushed your mother to a point I never thought she'd reach. You walked out of this house like rules didn't apply to you, like you're above the people who raised you."
"I know, Dad. I'm sorry," she said, already tearing up.
"You're sorry after the slap? After yelling? After drinking under our roof?"
"I didn't drink here—"
"Don't." His voice was calm, but it cut through her like a blade. "Don't interrupt me. Not today."
Max's lip trembled. Her head lowered, shoulders shaking as she burst into tears.
"I didn't mean for it to get that bad," she choked. "I just—I felt trapped. And angry. And I wanted to breathe. But I never wanted to disrespect Mum. Or you."
David shook his head slowly, disappointment clear on his face.
"You're eighteen, Max. Old enough to understand choices come with consequences. You're grounded, not just from work, but everything. Indefinitely. And I mean it."
She nodded, crying harder.
Michael stood silently at the door, wishing he could defend her but knowing now wasn't the time.
"Think about the kind of woman you're becoming," David said quietly, then turned and walked out, leaving Max in sobs.
Angela stood by the hallway, watching. She didn't say a word. Just turned and walked back into her room.
And for the first time, Max felt truly alone.
Thank you all you reading.