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dear dimestore therapists,

walking into the family room of my dad’s townhome was kind of like walking into the pages of some interior design magazine. or at least that’s what i remember thinking at the time–i don’t think i’d ever even seen an interior design magazine at that point in my life. but that room looked so…staged. from the perfectly arranged pillows on the sofa and love seat, to the grouping of chairs around the fireplace–in which there was, of course, a roaring fire–to the side table set with a neat stack of novels and a glass of wine, which glowed ruby in the firelight.

i was so transfixed by the wine’s beautiful color that i didn’t notice the woman sitting in a leather club chair next to the fire until my dad, who was standing behind me, cleared his throat loudly. i turned to him to throw him a withering stare, but he just elbowed me in the ribs and nodded in her direction.

the first thing i noticed about ashleigh was that she looked young. in hindsight, i realize she must have looked really young for her age, because when you’re sixteen, anyone over 21 looks ancient. the second thing i noticed was the dishtowel she was holding in her hands. it was damp and twisted around her palms, and she was worrying it as though she were nervous. i found this surprising, since i wasn’t nervous at all–i was mostly irritated with my father for forcing this meeting on me when i was still grieving the death of my mother.

as soon as ashleigh heard my father she jumped up out of her chair, scooting it backwards a little, nearly knocking the side table over. she caught her wine glass as it tipped over, only spilling a couple drops on the polished wood surface. she wiped them up with the towel in her hands, then set it down next to the stack of books on the table before standing up straight and looking at my father and me.

“walk,” my dad stage-whispered, poking me in the back. i made my way towards ashleigh, who had apparently turned to stone and was standing frozen in front of her chair, her smile looking a little wooden and creepy. her hands were resting at her sides, arms completely extended, and i had to stop myself from laughing–she looked like nothing more than a nutcracker doll standing there all rigid and strange.

“hi, i’m olivia,” i said when i reached her, holding out my hand. she looked at it as though she’d never seen a hand outstretched for a handshake, then shook her head. i was relieved that she’d finally moved, but was not all that amused when she leaned forward and pulled me into a surprisingly firm bear hug. now i was the rigid one; i made no effort to pretend that i planned on returning her hug, and kept my hands firmly on the sides of my thighs.

“i’m ashleigh,” she whispered into the hair near my ear, “and i’m so glad you’re home now.” i stiffened even more at the mention of “home,” seeing as she had referenced a place that was further from my idea of home than a cardboard box on the sidewalk on columbus avenue would have been.

ashleigh must have felt my response, because she let me go and stepped away, hands still on my shoulders. her eyebrows were drawn together in a worried frown, and she said, “did i do something wrong?”

i was so uncomfortable with the weight of her hands on my shoulders that i found it hard to focus, and didn’t answer for a moment. my father butted in, assuring ashleigh that everything was fine and i was still a little tired. i’d never heard him sound so affectionate, and that only served to further annoy me.

i shrugged my shoulders roughly and ashleigh’s hands slid down my arms. she finally let me go, and i sat on the sofa facing the fire. my dad took ashleigh’s hand and led her to the love seat adjacent to the sofa, and they sat down together, in one motion. they were starting to make me sick.

“this isn’t my home,” i said, staring into the flames. i knew i should just let it go, but all i could think about was my mother, sitting at our kitchen table, a plate of rubbery scrambled eggs and burnt toast in front of her. she couldn’t cook anything, even toast, and the smell i most associated with “home” was that of burning bread. this place smelled like a department store at christmas time, when they burned their holiday-themed candles. it was so not my home.

“olivia,” my father said in a low voice  meant to warn me. i turned my face and looked at him, and his expression was that of one who is prepared to harm in order to protect. the only thing was, he wasn’t protecting me. as usual.

“what? am i not allowed to state the obvious?” i said, ignoring his tone and expression. i knew i’d only provoke him, but i didn’t care. i felt rebellious and reckless, like i wanted to break something.

he moved as if to stand up, but ashleigh put her hand on his leg and pushed a little bit, and he stayed seated. “don’t argue, please,” she said. her voice was so sweet; she sounded a little like my second-grade teacher, who used to bring homemade candied apples to class on fridays. subconsciously, my mind opened a little, and my tense posture relaxed.

“olivia’s right, this isn’t really her home, not yet anyway. olivia, we want to make this a safe and happy place for you. is there anything you need that you don’t have?”

“yeah, my mom. and my old life,” i said without thinking. i immediately regretted it, because ashleigh’s face crumpled like a paper bag puppet, and she started to cry, turning her face into my father’s shoulder. he glared at me accusingly.

“olivia, ashleigh is doing her best. there’s no need to be nasty. go up to your room, please. i’ll be up shortly and we’re going to talk about this.”

i stared at him in disbelief. did he think i was still 12, like i’d been when he left? my mom hadn’t sent me to my room in years. he was serious, though–he fixed me with his stern gaze and watched as i shrugged my shoulders, got up off the sofa and turned to leave the room. i trudged up the stairs loudly, trying not to overhear the sounds of my father comforting his child bride.

this was going to be a long two years.

yours,

olivia

— Alexis