"Mother, stop it. Don't lie to her like you lied to me. You had me believing in that basement door, opening it every night at midnight, hoping for something—anything.
I joined you in that delusion. And now? Every time I remember it, I feel nothing but anger," my mother muttered, downing the last of her beer.
That was my mother—a drunk, but never laid her hand on me. Since my father left, alcohol had been her solace. She wasn't always present, but at least she never hated me.
Yet the stories my grandmother told about the door? They were fascinating, almost like fantasy.
She was forced to marry my grandfather at sixteen. He was sixty. After giving birth to my mother, she disappeared—for ten years. Then, one day, my grandfather and mother returned home, only to find her casually cooking as if nothing had happened.
She claimed she had traveled to another dimension but returned simply because she missed her daughter.
She spoke of that other world—like Earth, but the people she knew and her had different lives.
The basement door, she said, was the gateway, opening precisely at midnight.
My mother had tried, night after night, to enter. But behind the door, there was only a wall. Eventually, she gave up, weary of disappointment.
Still, my grandmother insisted it was real. She had once tried to take my mother through, but the door had refused them.
At twenty, my mother married my father—a man she had known for a year. Their love seemed unshakable, until ten years later when she learned the truth. He had a mistress—his ex-girlfriend, the mother of his secret daughter.i was older than his mistress daughter with one year.
I still remember that night. The fights, the heartbreak. My eyes were opened throughout that night.And then, just like that, my father was gone.
He used to visit every day. Then every day became four times a month. Four times a month dwindled to once in a while. And then, he never came at all.
I waited. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. But he never returned.
And when I was eleven, my grandmother vanished again. We searched, plastered missing posters across the city, but she was never found.
With a 4.95 CGPA in accounting and a master's degree, I had believed in a better future. I poured everything into studying, determined to escape a life of struggle. I endured part-time jobs I despised just to survive because my mother wasn't working. Sometimes, I even resented her for that.
Interview after interview, rejection after rejection—the judges smiled, assured me they hoped to work with me soon. But the phone never rang.
Why is life so cruel?
I had no social life, few friends from my part-time jobs, and never dated. I had sacrificed everything for success. And yet, here I was, sitting on the sidewalk staring at the streets after yet another fruitless interview.
Then I saw him.
My father stepped out of a limousine, arm-in-arm with a woman my mother's age and a girl who looked like my age. Their clothes screamed luxury, their smiles effortless.
I didn't need to look twice. Fifteen years had passed, but I still recognized him.
And despite everything, I missed him.
The woman and the girl walked into the mall, and just as my father was about to follow, I yelled.
"Dad! It's me—Lynette!"
He turned, his gaze locking onto mine.
I smiled, my vision blurring with tears of joy.
He adjusted his glasses. "Lynette,"he muttered, almost in disbelief.
I ran toward him, my heart pounding. He took a step forward—was he coming to me? But then, his daughter emerged from the mall.
My pace slowed.
"Dad, where are you going? Mom needs you," she said with a bright smile, slipping her arm through his as they walked inside together.
I stopped. Watched. He didn't turn back.
Desperate, I followed them inside, keeping my distance, unnoticed.
I saw the things they bought—luxury bags, designer clothes. One item caught my eye: a pair of flats for his daughter, a popular brand, $5,000. I glanced down at my own shoes—worn out, patched up more times than I could count.
Something about her seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it.
Then, I stumbled upon a massive advertisement in the mall. And suddenly, I remembered.
She was a celebrity. A beloved actress. One of those rare stars with no haters.
As people passed, some recognized my father, addressing him as the CEO of Anderson Electronics
When I got home, I searched everything—Anderson Electronics, my father, his wife, their daughter. I found their social media accounts.
I set notifications for her live streams, her pictures. I stalked her.Not because I liked her—which I didn't.
I was jealous.
She was so loved that I couldn't even hate her.
******
Then one day,a job opportunity came through Daniella—an open position for servers at Silver Anderson's birthday party,my father's other daughter.
A few days later, I was there, dressed in a black chiffon long sleeve top and a sleek red skirt with a front slit, weaving through the elegant crowd with a tray of wine glasses in hand. The event was dazzling—an outdoor celebration under a canopy of twinkling lights.
Ella caught my arm. "The madame needs you in the kitchen. She said she needs two glasses of wine."She was gone before I could respond.
Balancing the tray carefully on my palm, I stepped inside the building, my focus sharp on the hallway ahead. A man was walking toward me, eyes locked on his phone, completely unaware.
Then—crack.
My heel snapped.
Panic surged through me. Shit,did my heel just break !Not now.And as if that wasn't bad enough.
I stumbled, gravity betraying me,colliding straight into the man.
His foot slipped. His eyes widened as he reached out, trying to steady himself. But my attention was elsewhere—on the two glasses. If they shattered, I wouldn't be able to pay for them. My bills were already suffocating me.
The wine splashed onto his pristine suit as he tumbled backward.
Instinct kicked in—I lunged forward, stretching my arm, fingers barely grazing the tray,my hands closer to the wine cups on the air. My heart pounded. Almost there! '
And finally I caught them.
Relief flooded me.
Then I realized—I had landed half on top of him, the hands holding the cups ,triumphantly raised above us like a victory flag.