Carolina Wren

Chapter 1

Wren's POV

It was still dark outside when I woke up to the feeling that something was wrong in the house. The gentle glow from the streetlight illuminated my room just enough that I could make out the dim shape of my furniture. On an immediate level, there was no screaming, no sounds of breaking glass, no creaks of someone climbing the stairs. I just couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

Turning over, my eyes were immediately drawn towards the sleeping baby in the crib a few feet away from me. She was nestled in a sleep sack, eyelashes brushing her chubby cheeks, her little fists knotted together above her head as her chest slowly rose and fell. Juni was fine.

I sat up slowly, not wanting to set off the ticking time bomb that was a peacefully sleeping baby. Tendrils of my strawberry blond hair had fallen out of my braid and across my face, refusing to move as I blew at them. Carefully, I lifted myself out of the bed and tiptoed across the floor and edged open the door.

The light in the bathroom was off, so I maneuvered through the hall, avoiding the spots I knew would creak. Peaking my head into the second upstairs bedroom, the first thing that drew my eye was Keegan, his blond curls doing their best impression of a bird's nest. The transition to a toddler bed hadn't been the smoothest one and he often got up to wander around in the middle of the night or wound up in my bed. He had been my first suspect when I thought something was off.

He was peacefully sleeping on his stomach, though. His diaper peeking out over the top of his pajama pants, his booty sticking up in the air like an inchworm.

In the bed near the window, Dylan was also asleep. His glasses were laying precariously close to the edge of his bedside table and I had a suspicion that he had barely remembered to take them off before he fell asleep after sitting up to read his book by the faint light from the street lamp.

There was a thump from downstairs and I frowned. It was 5 in the morning, not even time for me to wake up yet. No one else in the house should be moving. If it wasn't one of the kids, it must be Sheila.

Frustration and anxiety mounting, I snuck down the stairs, the sounds of someone rooting around in the kitchen becoming more and more clear. I had to skirt around still unpacked moving boxes by memory as I made my way towards the light in the kitchen. Hovering in the dark dining room, I watched as my mother trifled through the cabinets. My eyes narrow as I take in her hair, somehow messed up even though I know there's enough spray in it to make her a fire hazard. Her makeup is thick and smudged, and a dress that looks suspiciously like mine hugs her frame.

I know Sheila, and I know this isn't from falling asleep reading like her son.

Oblivious to her audience, I watch as she moves to the fridge, picking through the groceries I bought a few days ago. She grabs the milk, opens it, sniffs it, and then starts chugging it straight from the carton.

This spurs me into motion. "What are you doing?" I demand, marching into the light, making her jump and dribble milk down her chin and onto her dress. "That milk is for all of us, not just you."

It takes her considerable effort to focus on me, my bravado waning in the light of her attention. "I buy it, you can't tell me what to do with it, Wren," she slurs, jerking as she slams it down on the counter. No, she doesn't and she knows it. The money comes from the limited and unreliable child support that comes in for the three kids sleeping upstairs. Any money Sheila makes is hers.

Not that she sees it that way. She's owed the money she gets from their dads, as far as she's concerned. Her reward for being anti-abortion. I'm not even entirely sure we see all of it, just enough to get by. Very little of the money she makes herself goes to our benefit.