Annelly

How is this my life? 

It’s a question that’s been cycling through my mind in an endless loop. When I returned to Ruby Creek, I truly believed I could make it work. That somehow, I’d find a way to be happy here. I thought that beneath the comforting veil of familiarity, surrounded by the town that once seemed like enough, I’d rediscover the girl I used to be. 

But that’s not what happened. 

Instead, I feel more disconnected than ever—not just from life here at Ruby Creek, but from myself. 

When I think about it, I guess it makes sense. This town hasn’t felt like home since my dad died. He was my anchor, my true north, the person who illuminated the path to the version of myself I wanted to become. Unlike my mother, he never tried to dictate who I was. He never demanded I follow some predetermined plan for my life. Instead, he encouraged me to follow my heart, to let my soul be my guide. He connected me to the real me—not the me born out of lectures and disapproving gazes. Not the me mom was so insistent on shaping me to become. 

And that, I think, is the crux of why I’m so miserable now. I’m back in Ruby Creek, trapped in the life my mother always envisioned for me—the life she forced on me under the guise of familial duty. It’s a life I hate. A life I resent more and more with each passing day.

But the worst part? 

I’m not here because of her. 

I’m here because of me. 

Because of my mistakes. 

That truth is a bitter pill to swallow. It would be so much easier to lay the blame at my mother’s feet—to accuse her rigid expectations and my suffocating upbringing for the mess I’m in now. But that would be a lie, and I’ve lied to myself enough already. After what happened last night, there’s no space left for denial. It’s time I face the harsh truth—my problems, my pain, my shattered life… they’re of my own making. I have no one to blame but myself. 

For what feels like the hundredth time today, my phone rings. I want to send it to voicemail again, but I don’t. I can’t. Because no matter how much I hate it, I know my time is up. 

“I’m here,” I answer curtly, cutting her off before she has a chance to speak. “Be there in a second.” I hang up before she can respond.

With a frustrated sigh, I pull the keys from the ignition, grab my purse, and then step out onto the paved lot. After locking my car, I walk towards the front entrance of Rosie’s Diner, keeping my focus on the ground in front of me. As is my new normal, the hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end in warning. This time, I don’t bother to look around, not wanting to further fuel the paranoia that’s taken over my life. I know that if I look, I’ll find evidence of him, and after what happened last night, I no longer trust the things I see, much less my body’s internal warnings.

When I enter the dining room, the buzz of conversation instantly disappears, replaced instead by an unsettling silence that wraps itself around me. The sudden quiet is disorienting, but it’s the weight of the judgmental stares that most unnerve me.

 I expected this. It’s Ruby Creek, after all—a place where “minding your own business” might as well be a foreign concept. News of how I lost it last night has clearly spread to every corner of this nosy little town. It would explain why the diner’s packed at two o’clock in the afternoon, at the start of my shift, when normally the place would be darn near empty. 

These people aren’t here for burgers and milkshakes. They’re here for me. Every single one of them has shown up to get a first-hand glimpse of the girl who lost it last night. They’re here to scrutinize me, to pick apart every detail of what I say and do, so they can piece together their own theories about what is “wrong” with me. Later, they’ll gather in someone’s living room—or maybe the church hall—to share their findings because, in Ruby Creek, gossip is practically a community sport.

Determined not to let them see my discomfort, I square my shoulders and lift my chin. It takes far more effort than it should, but I force one foot in front of the other, walking steadily toward the office, knowing she’ll follow. Though I don’t look, I can feel her disapproving gaze boring into me from where she stands behind the counter watching me. 

As far as I’m concerned, I don’t owe her anything more than my presence today. I’m here. In this town. Waiting tables, just like she wanted. Living under her roof. My life, neatly tethered to hers the way she likes it to be. The way I see it, that’s more than enough—more than anyone should have to give. My feelings, though? My emotions? Those are mine, and I refuse to give her any power over them.

By the time I sink into the loveseat, she’s already closing the door behind us. I don’t need to look at her to know she’s furious. Given I’ve been avoiding her since everything happened, even I can admit some of her anger is justified. 

When she takes her seat behind the desk facing me, like I’m an employee and not her daughter, tears well up behind my eyes. I don’t let them fall, though. Instead, I draw on my resentment, using it to reinforce the walls around my heart in preparation for this conversation. Whatever she says to me today, I won’t let it cut deeper than the wounds I already carry. I can’t afford to break any more than I already have.

With her back ramrod straight, she clasps her hands in front of her. “We need to talk.”

“That’s why I’m here,” I reply, my voice flat and emotionless as I hide behind a mask of indifference.

“Look, honey,” she begins, her voice dripping with the same sugary sweetness she used to use to lower my guard. Something that hasn’t worked on me in quite some time. 

“I’m worried,” she continues. “What happened last night… well, everyone is talking about it. Having the police show up in the middle of dinner rush, only for you to tell them you’d made a mistake, is_”

“Is what, Mom?” I cut her off, my voice sharp as I lean forward, daring her to finish that thought. “Did me having a panic attack in front of the town embarrass you? Is this about your reputation, or are you worried my crazy is bad for business?” With my head held high, I meet her gaze. I want her to see it—that I’m no longer the pushover I once was. “Please clarify which it is, because the only thing that’s clear is that your concern isn’t for me.”

Part 2 Continues in the next chapter.