Chapter 108: Chapter 108 - Two Weeks Notice
For a second, Roxie heard the words without understanding them.
The kitchen seemed to hold still.
"What?"
Claire’s head had lowered again, her eyes half shut like she could say something like that and drift away from it.
Roxie stepped closer. "What did you just say?"
Claire rubbed at her face. "I found a buyer."
"For what?"
Claire gave her a tired, flat look. "For the house."
Roxie stared at her.
Roxie looked around.
The old cabinets. The cracked tile near the sink. The hallway with the floorboard that always creaked. The living room where Claire passed out more often than she sat up. Her bedroom down the hall with posters peeling at the corners and a window that stuck when it rained.
It was ugly.
It was old.
It was still the only reason Roxie had ever known stability.
When her grandmother died, Claire had made one decision that changed their miserable life. She kept the house. For once, Roxie had a place that did not belong to a landlord counting late rent through the door. For once, she did not have to sit quiet while someone slammed a fist against the wall outside and Claire whispered for her not to move. For once, she could step inside, close the door, and call something home.
Now Claire was taking it away.
"The house," Roxie said.
"Yes."
"You’re selling our house?"
"I’m selling my house."
Roxie’s stomach turned. "This is Grandma’s house."
Claire looked away.
"When?" Roxie’s voice sharpened. "When did this happen?"
"That part doesn’t matter."
"It matters to me."
Claire reached for the lighter, missed it, then picked it up on the second try. "You’ll be eighteen soon."
Roxie went still.
Her birthday.
The thought moved through her slowly, then hit all at once.
Her birthday was close.
All this time, Roxie had thought things between them had gotten quieter because maybe Claire was trying. Maybe they had become less sharp around each other. Maybe they had stopped fighting every night because there was nothing left to fight about.
It had felt flat.
Awkward.
Fragile.
But better.
At least, that was what Roxie had told herself when Claire remembered to ask what time practice ended. When Claire left a plate on the counter. When Claire smoked by the window instead of screaming in the hallway. When days passed with only small arguments instead of slammed doors.
Roxie had mistaken silence for peace.
Claire had only been waiting for her to turn eighteen.
The room tilted.
Roxie grabbed the edge of the table.
Claire’s voice came through it, dull and casual.
"You have two weeks to move your things."
Roxie stared at her.
Two weeks.
The words sat there like something thrown on the floor between them.
Her hand tightened on the table so hard her knuckles turned pale.
"No."
Claire sighed. "Roxie."
"No." Roxie shook her head. "No, you’re not doing that."
"It’s already done."
"No, it’s not." Her voice rose. "No, it’s not already done. You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to miss Senior Night, get high in the kitchen, then tell me I’m homeless in two weeks like you’re telling me to take out the trash."
Claire’s eyes narrowed. "Lower your voice."
"No." Roxie’s voice cracked. "Wake up."
Claire blinked. "What?"
"Wake up." Roxie moved around the table and grabbed Claire’s arm. "Look at me."
"Get your hands off me."
"Look at me!"
Claire tried to pull away, but Roxie held on, fingers digging into her mother’s wrist.
"You missed it," Roxie said. "You missed everything. They called my name. I stood there waiting for you. I kept looking at the gate like an idiot because I thought maybe you were late. Maybe you were still coming. Maybe for once you would show up when I asked."
Claire yanked her arm back. "Stop yelling."
"I wrote your name." Roxie’s breath came too fast now. "I wrote your name on the form. I wrote Claire Jones because even after everything, even after all your shit, I still wanted you there."
Claire stood too fast, the chair scraping hard against the floor. "I said stop yelling."
"What, I’m not important?" Roxie’s voice broke into something close to a scream. "I’m your fucking daughter."
Claire flinched, then her face hardened. "Don’t talk to me like that."
"Then act like my mother."
"I am your mother."
"No, you’re not." Roxie’s chest rose and fell too fast. "You’re the person I keep defending in my head because admitting the truth makes me feel pathetic."
Claire’s mouth tightened. "You always make yourself the victim."
Roxie laughed, sharp and shaky. "I’m the victim? You’re selling the house."
"The bills don’t pay themselves."
"The bills?" Roxie pointed at the table. Her hand shook. "This is what you were doing when I came home. This. But the bills are the problem?"
Claire’s eyes flashed. "You think you can judge me now?"
"Yes." Roxie’s voice came out too loud, too raw. "Yes, I can judge you. I can judge you for missing tonight. I can judge you for this table. I can judge you for selling the only place I have and telling me like I’m some tenant who forgot rent."
Claire pointed toward the hallway. "This place is mine."
Roxie froze.
The words went straight through the panic.
"Yours," she said.
Claire lifted her chin. "Yes."
Roxie’s breathing stuttered.
For a second, she could not get enough air.
The kitchen blurred around the edges. Her chest squeezed tight, too tight, and the smell of smoke and old chemicals seemed to press into her throat. She gripped the back of the chair because the floor felt like it had shifted under her.
Claire kept talking, but the words came in pieces.
"Two weeks."
"Start packing."
"Be practical."
Practical.
Roxie tried to breathe.
It came in wrong.
Too shallow.
Her hand went to her chest.
Claire’s voice sharpened. "Roxie, enough with the drama."
The sentence snapped something back into place.
Roxie looked up.
Her face was wet.
She had not even felt the tears fall.
"I can’t breathe," she said, voice shaking.
Claire stared at her.
Then she looked away.
That hurt worse than the house.
Roxie wiped her face with the heel of her hand, angry at the tears, angry at her body, angry that Claire could still make her feel like a child begging to be picked up.
"Look at me," Roxie said.
Claire stayed quiet.
"Look at me," Roxie screamed.
Claire finally looked.
Roxie’s voice shook hard now. "You were waiting."
Claire’s face changed.
"You were waiting for my birthday," Roxie said. "That’s why you stopped fighting as much. That’s why you got quiet. That’s why you acted like things were better. You were waiting until I turned eighteen so you could kick me out and tell yourself it was fine."
Claire’s eyes went cold. "You need somewhere to stay. That is what you need to think about."
Roxie stared at her.
No apology.
No denial.
No mother.
Only Claire standing in the kitchen with smoke in her hair and a deadline in her mouth.
Roxie’s panic turned cold all at once.
She nodded slowly.
"Okay."
Claire blinked. "Okay?"
"Yeah." Roxie picked up the flowers from the counter. Her hands were still shaking. "Okay."
"Roxie."
"No." Her voice came out rough. "You said it. Two weeks."
"You need to be practical."
Roxie smiled without warmth. "I learned that from you."
Claire’s face hardened. "Don’t start."
"I’m finished."
She turned toward the hallway.
"We’re still talking," Claire snapped.
Roxie stopped but kept her back to her.
"No," she said. "You talked. I heard you."
"You need to know where you’re going."
Roxie looked over her shoulder.
Her face stayed hard, but her chest still hurt from trying to breathe.
"I’ll figure it out," she said. "That’s what you raised me to do."
Claire said nothing.
Roxie walked to her room.
Her flowers shook in her hand.
She shut the door and locked it.
The second the click sounded, her body almost gave out.
She pressed the flowers against her chest and stood in the middle of the room, breathing through her nose, staring at the bed, the desk, the closet, the laundry basket, the old cheer bag by the wall.
Two weeks.
Her room looked the same as it had that morning.
That made it worse.
Everything was still there, acting like it belonged to her.
Roxie crossed the room and put the flowers on her desk.
The red and white petals looked strange under the yellow lamp.
She stared at them until her eyes burned again.
Someone had shown up with those flowers.
Someone had walked with her.
Someone had clapped.
Claire had stayed home and found a buyer.
Roxie sat on the edge of her bed.
Her hands were still shaking.
She curled them into fists and pressed them against her knees.
Two weeks.
She would pack.
She would work.
She would go to practice.
She would smile at school if she had to.
She would figure out where to sleep because apparently that was what daughters did when mothers got tired of being mothers.
Her throat tightened.
A sound rose in her chest.
Roxie swallowed it hard.
She would rather choke on it than let Claire hear her cry.
