The sound of rain tapping against the windows was the only noise filling the house, and I hated it. I hated the silence that came after the chaos. Before, when my mom was alive, this house was full of laughter, voices, and sometimes arguments. Now, there was only an empty echo, mirrored by an even greater emptiness inside me.
“Bela, dinner’s ready,” Clara called from the kitchen, her calm and controlled voice echoing down the hallway. She always spoke as if she didn’t want to bother me, as if she were afraid of disturbing me.
I got up from the couch reluctantly. My steps were slow, almost dragging, as I walked down the hallway and reached the table. Clara had her back to me, serving what looked like soup. “You didn’t have to worry about me,” I muttered as I sat down.
She turned and gave me a look I couldn’t decipher. Clara had a way of hiding everything behind a calm façade. She wasn’t exactly cold, but she wasn’t warm either. Since my mom’s death, Clara had been kind in a distant way, as if walking on eggshells around me.
“You need to eat,” she replied simply, placing the plate in front of me before sitting down on the other side of the table.
I picked up the spoon but didn’t eat immediately. The smell of the soup reminded me of my mom. Clara knew how to cook well, almost as well as my mom. It was strange how something so simple could make me feel both longing and pain at the same time.
“I know things are hard for you right now,” Clara began, her soft voice interrupting my thoughts. I looked up at her. Her blonde hair was tied in a simple bun, and her dark brown eyes watched me with a mix of concern and something else I couldn’t identify. “But you can talk to me if you need to.”
I almost laughed. Talk? About what? About how my mom died suddenly and left me alone with a woman I barely knew? About how I was filled with anger and sadness and had no idea how to deal with it? Instead, I just nodded and muttered, “I’m fine.”
Clara sighed but didn’t press the issue. She never did. And, somehow, that irritated me even more.
After dinner, I went back to my room. Or at least to what was supposed to be my room. It had been the guest room before, but now it was mine because I couldn’t bear to sleep in my mom’s old room. Clara had tried to make it cozy for me – added some colorful cushions, bought a new desk – but none of it made it feel like home. I threw myself onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, listening to the rain outside.
The door to my room was slightly ajar, and I could hear Clara’s footsteps in the hallway. She always walked slowly, almost silently. That annoyed me too. It was as if she was trying to disappear, as if she were trying to be invisible so as not to bother me.
But then she stopped. I could feel her presence outside my room, even though she didn’t say anything. I almost got up to ask what she wanted, but before I could, she turned around and walked away.
I stayed there, lying on the bed, wondering what she wanted to say. Clara always seemed like she wanted to say something but never did. It was frustrating. I wanted to hate her. I wanted to blame her for all of this, but I couldn’t. She hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, she was doing the best she could. But maybe that was what irritated me the most. She was too good, too perfect, and I didn’t want her to be.
The next morning, I woke up to the smell of coffee. Clara was already in the kitchen, as usual, drinking her coffee while reading the newspaper. It was almost comical how cliché she looked. An elegant woman in her white blouse, her hair tied back, and a calm expression on her face. She saw me come in and gave me a small smile.
“Good morning,” she said, placing a cup of coffee in front of me. I muttered something in response and sat down. As I sipped my coffee, I couldn’t help but watch her. Clara was beautiful, I had always known that, but there was something about her posture, her graceful movements, that I had never noticed before. Or maybe I had and just refused to admit it.
She looked up from the newspaper and caught me staring. I quickly looked away, feeling my cheeks flush. What’s wrong with me? I thought. Clara is... Clara. My stepmother. Nothing more.
The rest of the day followed a routine. I stayed home most of the time, unsure of what to do with my life. Clara worked in her home office but always took breaks to check on me. It was both annoying and comforting.
Later in the afternoon, Clara suggested we open a bottle of wine. “One glass won’t hurt you,” she said with a soft smile, pouring a small amount into my glass before filling hers.
I hesitated, but eventually took a sip. The warmth of the wine spread through me, easing some of the tension I had been holding. We talked about mundane things at first, but then the conversation shifted to memories of my mom. Clara’s voice softened as she shared stories about their life together, her gaze distant yet full of emotion.
After finishing my glass, I stood up. “I think I’m going to take a shower,” I said, walking away. Clara nodded, her eyes lingering on me for a moment longer than usual.
In the bathroom, the hot water cascaded over me, washing away the stress of the day. I closed my eyes, letting the steam envelop me. It was one of the few places where I felt truly alone, where I didn’t have to think about Clara or the confusing emotions swirling inside me.
I turned off the water and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around my body. As I stepped out of the bathroom, I was startled to see Clara standing in the hallway, her hand halfway raised as if she were about to knock on the door.
“Oh, I...” she stammered, her eyes widening as they flicked over me. Only then did I realize the towel barely covered me, water droplets trailing down my skin.
“Sorry,” I muttered, clutching the towel tighter. My face burned, and I couldn’t meet her gaze.
“No, it’s... my fault,” Clara said quickly, stepping back. Her cheeks were flushed, her usual composure momentarily broken. “I didn’t mean to... I just wanted to ask if you needed anything.”
I hesitated, but something in the way her eyes avoided mine left me unsettled. It wasn’t just embarrassment. It was something deeper, something that made the air between us feel heavy. Finally, I managed to murmur, “I’m fine.”
I passed her quickly, catching a faint trace of her scent mixed with the steam from my shower. When I entered my room and closed the door, I realized my hands were trembling. I leaned against the door, trying to steady my breathing.
But the image of Clara – her eyes lingering a second too long on me, the blush on her cheeks – was burned into my mind. I should have felt embarrassed, but the heat on my face wasn’t just embarrassment. It was something else, something I wasn’t sure I was ready to admit.
On the other side of the door, I heard Clara’s footsteps retreating slowly, each sound echoing in the heavy silence of the house. My thoughts were a mess, and my heart was beating far too fast. Whatever was happening between us, I knew it was dangerous.
And yet, I couldn’t push away the growing desire burning inside me.