Page 48

“Welcome home,” I say softly, glancing back at him as I fold the sheet I pulled from the window. His face is a mask, but his fingers twitch against the armrests. He sees it, the decay, the abandonment. This house, once his kingdom, has fallen into ruin. Did he think I would continue to live in this house?

The transport nurse clears her throat behind me. “Where would you like him set up, Miss Lydia?” She takes the command of the wheelchair and pushes him further into the house.

“His office,” I reply without hesitation. Pointing down the hall. “This is the only room we have on the ground floor. All other rooms are on the second story.”

She hesitates, glancing down the hall. “I need to see it before he goes back there. Discharge paperwork specified a cleared, ground-floor room.”

“It will be cleared and ready by the time the hospital bed and everything else arrives.” I say, my voice even, reasonable. “The movers are clearing it this morning. I just need somewhere for him to sit while we wait that isn’t in the cold of the transport van.”

She studies me, her eyes searching my face, searching for what, I don’t know. She looks at the top of my father’s head. Whatever she decides falls in my favor. “Alright. Just for today.”

I nod, leading the way down the hall, my footsteps soft but sharp against the warped floorboards. The office door lets out a low groan as I push it open, like even the hinges are reluctant to give up whatever’s been buried inside all these years.

The smell hits first, old whiskey, stale sweat, and something damp. A sour mix that sticks in the back of my throat. Then the chaos of the room. Papers are scattered everywhere, curling at the edges, yellowed and brittle with time. The bookshelf leans hard to one side, half-collapsing under stacks of old leather-bound theology books, like even it has grown tired of holding up his words.

The whole room feels frozen, yet heavy with him, like stepping into a space that’s been holding its breath for years.

In the corner, the heavy wooden door looms, a door that has played front and center in so many of my nightmares. This door, unlike the one off the kitchen, leads to my father’s side of the cellar, and my stomach knots just looking at it. My eyes dart away, but the memory of what’s beyond it claws at the edges of my mind, impossible to ignore.

His desk holds court in the center of the room, its dark wood polished to an unnatural gleam in sharp contrast to the disarray around it. On its surface, his Bible lies open, the pages dog-eared and smudged with years of use. The faded ribbon marker still clings to a verse he must have read countless times, a verse that meant nothing to me then and less now. The sight of it feels like an accusation, like he’s still here, demanding obedience and submission.

I grip the doorframe, my knuckles whitening as the memories flood in. His voice booms in my head, sharp and unyielding, as if the walls themselves are echoing him back at me. “This is where God’s work is done, Lydia. You’re here to learn.”

It’s not just a room. It’s a prison of judgment, a temple to his cruelty. Every inch of it radiates him, the man who demanded reverence, who convinced an entire community of his sanctity while stripping away every ounce of mine.

I never entered this room as a child unless he summoned me, and even then, my visits were brief, my eyes glued to the floor as I stood before his desk. Now, standing here willingly, I feel like I’m trespassing on sacred ground, sacred only to him. If I had my way, I’d never step foot in here again. I’d chain the door shut and leave it to rot along with the man who once sat behind the desk.

But the house doesn’t give me that luxury. Not with his bedroom upstairs and him being either strapped into his wheelchair or in his bed. This room, thick with judgment and secrets, is the only choice.

The nurse makes a sound of disapproval behind me. I step aside as they maneuver his chair into the room, pushing it in the corner. She scans the room, her lips pressed in a tight, thin line. “Is he supposed to stay in here?” she asks. “It’s a little cramped. I didn’t think the room was so full.”

“Well, my father was an important man at one time. He liked the material things to prove that fact. But like I said, the movers were supposed to be here before you arrived. They’re running late. If they weren’t, then this room would have already been cleared. My father no longer has need for everything.” The lie rolls off my tongue with ease. They weren’t supposed to be here earlier. I made it a point to have my father here so he could witness the downfall of his empire.

She hums in either approval or disapproval, I can’t really tell. “I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem if we take him back and bring him back here when it’s more equipped for what he needs. Maybe we rushed this.”

“No. No need to make the extra effort. He’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. Won’t we, Father?”

She hesitates, looking between me and my father, landing back on my father like she’s waiting for him to say something. After a few seconds, she gives a small nod and heads down the hall.

I stay on the far side of the room, watching him take it all in, this space where he once ruled, where his anger filled every corner. His eyes move slowly, flicking across the room, unsure but still sharp, landing on the desk that once held his sermons, his papers, his secrets.

I track his gaze as it drops to the floorboards. The spot he always paced, over and over, boots hitting the wood in time with the rise of his fury.

I notice the subtle shift in his demeanor, the tightening of his jaw, the way his hands clench the armrests of the chair as though the very act of sitting there is its own form of penance. His fingers twitch slightly, the skin pale and stretched taut over knuckles gone white with tension. Is he remembering? Does he see what I see? The years of whispered commands, his dominance still lingering in every corner of this room?

I let the silence settle, heavy and oppressive, as though the air itself refuses to forgive what happened here. My fingers graze the back of the chair nearest to me, a phantom sensation prickling my skin as memories threaten to claw their way to the surface. His eyes dart to mine briefly, the smallest flicker passing between us, unspoken. Recognition? Shame? I can’t tell. But I know this place holds his sins just as it holds my scars. And now, for the first time, we are both prisoners of.

The low rumble of an approaching engine cuts through the silence, the sound growing louder until it vibrates through the room. His eyes widen, flickering toward the window as if he could will himself upright to see. He can’t, of course. Not anymore.

The movers are right on time.

I make my way to the door before they can knock. When I open it, a group of men stand before me. “You Lydia?” the man in front asks, his voice gruff but not unkind.

“That’s me. Follow me.”

The air shifts as the door creaks open all the way, and the heavy thud of boots follows. A moving crew strides in, following me down the hall until we reach the office. The man at the front pauses just inside the doorframe, his eyes darting from me to the broken figure slumped in the chair

I nod once, curtly. “Everything in here”—I sweep a hand toward the desk, the bookshelves, the cluttered remnants of my father’s self-importance—“is going.”