Chapter 1 - THE ILLUSION OF PERFECTION
The first thing you notice about my father Marcus Holloway's house is how perfect it looks,
glistening under the pale winter moon,
standing like a cold monument to excessive wealth.
It is not warm,
nor is it loved,
but it is absolutely perfect,
designed to intimidate anyone who dares to approach.
Fresh snow is brushed carefully across the manicured hedges,
creating flawless white lines that mimic a postcard,
while expensive matching wreaths hang on every single door,
ordered months in advance by highly paid decorators.
The grand marble inside the foyer is so highly polished,
it reflects the bright Christmas tree lights like a corporate showroom floor,
blinding everyone who steps inside.
I felt the sharp warning deep in my bones,
before I even parked the old car,
a heavy dread settling tightly in my chest,
making it incredibly hard to take a deep breath.
Zuri sat quietly in the cluttered back seat,
humming a sweet holiday melody to herself,
completely unaware of the tension,
wearing the thin red dress she had proudly picked out,
because the tiny gold stars made her feel fancy.
She looked out the frosty window,
her eyes bright with innocent excitement,
and she softly asked if Grandpa would have sweet cookies,
hoping for a warm welcome from a man who had none to give.
I looked at her beautiful reflection,
and I lied straight to her face,
smiling through my growing anxiety,
because I wanted to protect her joy.
I spoke like I still believed in family,
like I still believed blood meant belonging,
even though history had taught me otherwise.
But deep down,
in the darkest corners of my mind,
I knew the bitter truth about my upbringing.
My brother Kellen opened the massive front door,
before I could even knock on the wood,
wearing a sharp,
expensive suit,
tailored perfectly to his athletic frame.
He offered a completely empty smile,
one that never reached his cold,
calculating eyes.
His gaze passed quickly over me,
dismissing my presence entirely,
as if I were invisible.
Then his eyes stopped directly on Zuri,
staring down at her with clear disdain,
looking at my innocent daughter,
as if she were something broken,
something cheap,
something that had been delivered to the wrong address.
Inside the grand foyer,
the festive music was kept soft,
while the wealthy guests mingled,
their high-pitched laughter completely staged for appearance.
My father stood near the roaring fireplace,
shaking hands with prominent people,
projecting ultimate benevolence.
He looked like a man campaigning for sainthood,
basking in the fake admiration of his peers.
When Zuri stepped forward,
and said,
"Hi,
Grandpa,"
he completely froze.
He gave her a harsh,
judgmental expression,
the exact same look people give a dark stain,
a ugly stain they hope no one else has noticed yet.
Aunt Simone floated into the crowded room,
wearing layers of expensive pearls,
and a smile full of pure poison.
She took Zuri by the small hand,
leading her toward the bright sunroom,
away from the important guests.
She chirped with a false sweetness,
"Shoes off,
sweetheart."
She pointed to the polished floor,
reminding us it was a rare,
imported rug.
I watched my little girl,
as she left her small black flats by the heavy door,
standing exposed.
She walked away quietly in her thin tights,
looking so fragile,
so small,
against the grand architecture.
I stood there silently,
holding my breath,
because I was still trying to keep the peace.
I swallowed my rising pride,
May you like
in a house that never wanted us peaceful,
hoping the night would pass without a storm.
