Family Lies And Deception

Angel’s POV

A deafening clap of thunder tore through the silence, yanking me from sleep. My body jerked slightly, heart hammering as I groggily tried to orient myself.

The room was cloaked in darkness except for the faint glow of my bedside lamp, which flickered slightly as if affected by the storm.

Rain pelted against the window, a steady and relentless downpour that mirrored the heaviness in my chest. I exhaled slowly, running a hand over my face before forcing myself to sit up.

My limbs felt stiff from sleep, and the cold air wrapping around my exposed skin sent a shiver down my spine.

Yawning, I stretched my arms above my head, the joints in my shoulders popping slightly as I rolled them. The storm outside raged on, with flashes of lightning momentarily illuminating the room, casting shadows along the walls.

Something about thunderstorms always left me peaceful, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.

I dragged myself out of bed, feet sinking into the plush carpet as I made my way toward the window. My fingers curled around the edges of the curtain, pulling them apart to reveal the chaotic sky outside. Dark, angry clouds churned above the city, casting everything below in an ominous shade of gray.

The streets were slick with water, the neon lights from the shops reflecting off the wet pavement in distorted colors. A few people hurried along the sidewalks, umbrellas struggling against the harsh wind. The sight of them made me realize how late it already was.

I glanced toward the clock on my nightstand. 9:14 AM.

My stomach grumbled loudly in protest, a painful reminder that I hadn’t eaten anything since last night. I sighed, rubbing my abdomen absentmindedly before turning away from the window.

I shuffled toward the bathroom, my bare feet making soft padding sounds against the floor. Just before stepping inside, I made sure to lock the door. Luca, my mannerless brother, had no understanding of personal space. He had a nasty habit of barging in unannounced, usually under the guise of annoying me.

After freshening up, I towel-dried my hair before sitting in front of my dresser. I pulled out my hairdryer, running my fingers through my damp locks as I worked through the strands.

Once satisfied, I reached for a familiar, oversized blue jersey, one I had shamelessly stolen from Luca. Pairing it with black shorts, I finally felt somewhat human again.

Just as I finished, the heavenly aroma of home-cooked food hit my nose, making my stomach clench painfully.

Mom.

I made my way downstairs, following the scent like a moth to a flame. Stepping into the kitchen, I found her standing behind the stove, her hands moving expertly as she stirred the contents of a steaming pot.

The rich smell of spices, garlic, and slow-cooked broth filled the air, wrapping around me like a warm embrace.

I smiled.

My mother’s cooking had always been the heart of our home. No matter how stressful or chaotic life became, the kitchen remained a place of comfort, a sanctuary where everything felt right—if only for a little while.

Without hesitation, I walked up behind her, wrapping my arms around her shoulders and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.

“Good morning, Mom,” I murmured, resting my chin against her shoulder. She turned slightly within my embrace, her tired eyes softening as she looked at me.

"Morning, sweetie. How did you sleep?”

“Like a rock,” I lied, unwilling to admit that the storm had kept me restless all night.

She hummed, giving me a knowing look before returning her attention to the stove.

I stepped away, making my way to the fridge for a bottle of water. Twisting off the cap, I took a long sip, letting the cool liquid soothe my parched throat. But just as I was about to drink more, Mom’s voice stopped me mid-gulp.

"Angel.” She called gently. Something in her tone made my stomach clench, and I swallowed nervousky.

“Yeah?”

She turned off the stove and walked over to me, her expression unreadable.

“You came home late last night.” My body stiffened.

How did she know?

I had been so sure she was asleep when I got in.

“Mom, I had to work overtime,” I quickly explained, trying to keep my voice steady. “The workload was crazy, and my boss—”

She sighed, cutting me off as she reached for my hands. Her fingers curled around mine, squeezing it gently.

“Sweetheart, I understand. But you need to stop overworking yourself. You’re young—you shouldn’t be carrying so much weight on your shoulders.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words caught in my throat.

“I mean it,” she continued, brushing her thumb over my knuckles. “You’re going to wear yourself out. And soon, you’ll start having wrinkles like me.” She chuckled, attempting to lighten the mood.

But I wasn’t laughing. Her smile was strained, her eyes filled with exhaustion she tried to hide.

“Mom,” I whispered, my throat tightening as I cupped her cheeks. “You’re beautiful.”

She let out another laugh, this time, a sad one.

“Oh, honey, don’t flatter me. Look at me—my hair is dry, my skin is aging. But that’s part of getting older. One day, I’ll even start getting gray hairs and—”

“Mom, stop,” I choked out, blinking rapidly as my vision blurred.

I threw my arms around her, holding on tight. She sighed softly, stroking my hair. I knew what she was trying to do.

“Angel, don’t worry about me so much. I’ll be fine.” But I knew she wasn’t fine.

She was sick, and no amount of forced smiles or comforting words could change that. She slowly pulled away, wiping the tears from my cheeks.

“Let’s eat, okay?”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat as we sat down at the table. We said a small prayer before digging in.

Mom was a deeply religious woman, firm in her beliefs and unwavering in her values. She condemned anything that strayed from the principles of the Bible, which was why I could never tell her the truth about what I did for work.

If she knew, she would never forgive me. She would lock me in this house and throw the keys away.

She would rather die than let her daughter become a stripper, a “slut,” as she would call it.

The thought made my stomach churn, but I forced myself to push it away. Across the table, I noticed Luca was unusually quiet.

“Baby, are you okay?” Mom asked, placing a gentle hand over his.

He hesitated before forcing a small smile. “I-It’s nothing, Mom. I’m just tired.”

“But you just woke up,” she countered, eyes narrowing in concern.

He sighed, raking a hand through his dark curls. “Mom, I had a really hectic day at school yesterday. I think it’s still catching up to me.”

She nodded in understanding, but I wasn’t convinced. He could lie to her, but no me.

I knew Luca. And something was wrong.

After breakfast, I helped Mom clean up before heading to my room—only to stop when I noticed Luca’s door was slightly ajar.

I peeked inside.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, his head bowed. His fingers were tangled in his hair, knuckles white from the pressure. My stomach twisted.

Something was definitely wrong.

Without a word, I stepped inside, quietly crossing the room before lowering myself beside him. The mattress dipped beneath my weight, but he didn’t acknowledge me.

I reached for his hand, gently taking it in mine. His brow quirked up slightly, almost instinctively, but he still wouldn’t look at me.

“Luca,” I murmured.

"I knew you were lying back there during breakfast,” I continued, rubbing small circles over his knuckles with my thumb. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Slowly, he lifted his head. And when our eyes met, my heart shattered.

The usual mischief and playfulness in his gray eyes were gone. Then, a single tear slipped down his cheek.

My breath caught in my throat. Luca was crying.

I hadn’t seen my brother cry since we were kids—since our father walked out on us, leaving us to fend for ourselves. Luca had always been the strong one, the one who cracked jokes when things got tough, the one who pretended everything was fine even when it wasn’t.

Seeing him like this broke me.

“L-Luca,” I whispered, voice trembling.

Before I could stop myself, I pulled him into a tight embrace.