Chapter 2 - The Porch Mutiny
The silence on my end of the connection was absolute, save for the rhythmic lap of turquoise water against the Nassau shore. But back in Denver, my doorbell camera feed captured an absolute meltdown in high-definition color.
My mother, Martha, looked as though she had short-circuited. Her mouth opened and closed like a stranded fish, her face turning a mottled, dangerous shade of plum beneath her carefully coiffed silver hair. Behind her, Jason looked like a volcano on the verge of an eruption, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, his designer winter coat half-zipped over an expensive sweater. Stephanie, holding nine-month-old Sky, looked less angry and more utterly defeated, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and sheer panic. Six-year-old Emma was staring up at the unyielding wooden door of my apartment as if it were a solid block of titanium, while four-year-old Oliver was already starting to whine, tugging frantically at Jason’s wool trousers.
"You can't be serious!" Jason roared, leaning so close to the doorbell lens that his distorted nose filled half the screen. "You left the state? We have non-refundable cabin reservations in Breckenridge! We paid three grand for that place, Riley! The rental agency doesn't do refunds after December twentieth!"
"Then I suggest you pack up your skis and enjoy the hot tub yourselves," I replied, my voice cool and unbothered as I lifted my iced coffee and took a slow, deliberate sip. "A romantic getaway. Just the two of you and the kids. Wait, no—that's a parenting nightmare. Too bad you didn't check with your designated free babysitter before you booked."
"Riley Jane!" Martha shrieked, shoving Jason aside and pressing her face right where his had been. "Open this door this instant! We have three children, a portable crib, and half a trunk full of luggage standing out in the freezing hallway! Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is? Your aunt Carol is checking her Facebook every five minutes—she's going to know the kids are on your doorstep!"
"Then maybe Aunt Carol can take them," I suggested brightly. "She lives only ten minutes away. In fact, why didn't you drop them off with her? She loves baking cookies."
"Your aunt Carol’s arthritis is flaring up, and you know it!" Martha snapped, her voice pitching up another octave. "And besides, it was *your* turn! You agreed to this months ago!"
"I never agreed, Mom," I said, my tone hardening just a fraction, cutting through her hysteria like a scalpel. "I said no. Twice. In writing and to your face. You just chose to live in a fantasy world where my life doesn't belong to me. Well, welcome to reality. The door is locked. I am four thousand miles away. Deal with it."
"You changed the locks," Jason muttered, his voice dropping from explosive rage to a cold, deadened disbelief. He stared at the brass handle as if it had personally insulted his dental degree. "You actually called a locksmith and changed our spare key out."
"It's my apartment, Jason," I reminded him. "I can change the locks whenever I want. You're welcome to call a locksmith of your own if you're stranded, but I'd hurry—it's thirty degrees out there, and Oliver looks like he's about to stage a sit-in."
Oliver chose that exact moment to drop to his knees on my welcome mat and begin wailing at the top of his lungs, his high-pitched shrieks piercing the doorbell mic. Stephanie closed her eyes, rocking back and forth with a miserable expression on her face, while Emma crossed her arms and glared at the camera lens with all the teenage angst a six-year-old could muster.
"We are going to miss our window," Stephanie murmured, her voice carrying through the speaker. Her exhaustion was palpable, a heavy, suffocating weight that even miles of ocean could not entirely block out. "Jason, we have to go. We can't stand here arguing with a camera."
"We can't just leave!" Jason argued, though his defiance was visibly crumbling under the sheer logistical nightmare of three freezing children and a packed car. "Where are we supposed to put them? Mom's condo has that strict HOA rule—no children under twelve allowed to stay overnight for more than forty-eight hours, and her guest room is practically a walk-in closet!"
"Then I guess you'll be spending Christmas in your own house," I said smoothly. "Think of all the quality family time you'll have. Isn't that what the holidays are all about?"
"You're a selfish, heartless witch, Riley!" Martha screamed, her final defense mechanism kicking in as she realized bullying wasn't going to work. "Destroying your own family over a petty grudge! Enjoy your little vacation, because when you come back to Denver, don't expect a single person to ever speak to you again!"
"Promise?" I asked.
May you like
Before she could sputter a reply, I swiped the app closed, severing the digital tether between my paradise and their purgatory. The screen went black. I leaned back into the plush cushions of my lounger, letting out a long, shuddering breath that felt like shedding a thirty-pound backpack I had been carrying for a decade. The sun was dipping lower now, painting the sky in strokes of bruised purple and burning gold. I was free. But as I watched the shadows lengthen across the pool deck, a cold, hard knot formed in my stomach. Mom wasn't bluffing. When I got back to Denver, there wouldn't just be an apology waiting for me—there was going to be a war.
***
