The sun had just begun to rise higher when Sarah Jackson stormed into the living room, still in her nightdress, her hair wrapped in a scarf, face puffy from sleep and last night's drinks.
"Zaria!" she snapped, voice echoing through the house like a slap.
Zaria, who had already been awake and quietly sweeping the corridor, rushed to the living room with her broom still in hand.
"Yes, mom?" she said softly.
Sarah narrowed her eyes, arms crossed. "Did you clean the backyard like I told you?"
"Yes, mom. I did yesterday evening," Zaria replied, standing still, hands gently clasped in front of her like a student before a headmistress.
Sarah snorted, eyeing her with suspicion. "You sure? You didn't just sprinkle water and pretend, did you?"
"No, mom. I scrubbed it properly," Zaria said, trying to keep her voice calm. "You can check if you want."
Sarah didn't move to check. She simply waved her hand dismissively, mumbling something under her breath as she sank into the old couch. Her slippers flopped to the floor with a dull thud. "Go boil some water for my bath, and make sure you warm up the food. I'm too tired to eat cold rice."
"Yes, mom," Zaria answered.
She turned quietly and walked back to the kitchen.
Even after everything—after years of coldness, harsh words, and being treated like a housemaid—Zaria still called Sarah "mom." Not because she was forced to, but because a part of her desperately wanted it to be true. She wanted Sarah to be the mother she had never had. The mother who stayed. The mother who cared.
Zaria still remembered tiny flashes of her real mother—a woman with warm hands and a soft laugh—who disappeared when she was just three years old. No one ever told her why or where she went. All Zaria knew was that one day, she was gone, and Sarah Jackson came instead.
Zaria had convinced herself that if she just tried hard enough, worked hard enough, loved hard enough, maybe—just maybe—Sarah would love her back.
She poured water into the kettle, lit the stove, then carefully uncovered the food. She reheated the rice and stew while watching the kettle begin to whistle.
Her stomach growled, but she ignored it. Her needs always came last in this house.
Once the food was warm, she placed it carefully on a tray and carried it into the living room.
Sarah was now lying back on the couch, flipping through her phone.
"Here's your food, mom," Zaria said gently, setting the tray on the small coffee table.
Sarah didn't look up. "About time."
Zaria stood awkwardly for a moment, hoping for a glance. A word. Maybe a softening in Sarah's tone. But nothing came.
She returned to the kitchen and continued cleaning.
Claire and Mary were still asleep upstairs, and Zaria knew better than to wake them. That would be seen as "jealousy" or "disrespect," even though they never lifted a finger to help with chores.
As she mopped the kitchen floor, her mind drifted into the same place it often went when her body was busy—into quiet dreams. Dreams where Sarah smiled at her. Held her hand. Called her my daughter in front of people.
It wasn't much. Just a daydream. But it was enough to keep her going.
She remembered last year, when Sarah had caught the flu and Zaria stayed up the whole night, bringing her tea, covering her with an extra blanket, checking her temperature. Sarah had barely spoken to her. But Zaria still held onto the moment like a flower in a dry field. That was the closest she had ever come to being needed.
Sometimes she wondered if Sarah even remembered those nights.
A loud yawn pulled her from her thoughts. Claire appeared in the hallway in her pajama shorts and fluffy slippers, rubbing her eyes. "Ugh, Zaria. You didn't mop the hallway yet?"
"I was about to," Zaria replied, stepping aside.
"Well, move. Your mop water stinks."
Zaria didn't argue. She never did. She just moved quietly, like she wasn't really there.
Mary was next to rise, dragging herself into the kitchen and grabbing a glass of juice without so much as a hello. "Make pancakes today," she muttered. "And don't burn them like last time."
Zaria sighed inwardly. Last time, she had made over ten pancakes for the girls, and the one that stuck to the pan—Claire claimed—was burnt. She'd been slapped for it. No one noticed the rest were fine.
Still, she nodded. "Yes, I'll make them."
As she mixed the batter, she heard Sarah call out again from the living room.
"Zaria!"
She wiped her hands on her apron and ran out. "Yes, mom?"
Sarah finally looked at her—just for a second. "Don't forget to hand-wash the clothes today. I want them dry before evening."
Zaria nodded. "I'll do that after breakfast."
Sarah studied her for a long moment, then added, "And don't go touching my things. I don't want to hear any stories."
"I won't, mom."
Zaria's heart lifted slightly. She looked at me this time, she told herself. It wasn't kindness, but it was attention. It meant she saw her. Maybe that was the first step.
After serving breakfast and clearing the plates, Zaria moved to the backyard with the basin full of laundry. She knelt on the mat, scrubbed each item carefully, and hung them out to dry in the sunlight.
Hours passed. The smell of detergent mixed with the scent of warm earth. Her fingers turned red and wrinkled. Still, she kept scrubbing.
As she worked, she whispered softly to herself. "Maybe today. Maybe not now, but one day, she'll see I'm trying. She'll see I love her. Maybe she'll even love me back."
Because despite it all, Zaria didn't just want survival.
She wanted to belong.