In her dream, Zaria sat in a high-backed leather chair, the kind that made you feel like a queen. Her office was bathed in warm light pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows. A gold nameplate on her desk read: Zaria Johnson, Director.
People moved briskly outside her glass door, tapping on tablets, speaking into headsets. She wore a fitted cream blazer, and her braids were long, neat, and glossy. She was respected here. She was seen.
"Madam, the documents are ready for signature," a woman said as she entered.
Zaria smiled faintly, taking the file without looking up. "Place them here. I'll review them shortly."
She wasn't afraid of anyone. Not here. In this world, her voice mattered. She belonged.
She reached for her pen—
SPLASH.
Cold water slammed into her face, drenching her instantly. She gasped, waking with a sharp jolt as the dream shattered like glass.
"Get up, you useless girl!" Sarah Jackson stood in the doorway, holding an empty metal basin with one hand and a scowl in the other. Her faded bathrobe clung to her like a second skin, and the stench of cigarette smoke lingered even this early in the morning.
Zaria sat upright on the thin mattress, coughing and shivering. Water soaked through her clothes, the sheet, even the pillow. Her heart raced as her bare feet touched the cold floor.
"I told you last night to wash those dishes, and what did you do? Slept like you're on some royal vacation!" Sarah snapped.
Behind her, Mary Florence, tall and sharp-faced, laughed into her phone, barely paying attention. Beside her stood Claire Rina, shorter and rounder, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with amusement.
"She look like a wet dog," Claire muttered.
Zaria said nothing. She'd learned the hard way that talking back only made things worse. Silence didn't protect her, but it delayed the punishment.
"You'll clean this whole house today. Start with the kitchen. Then the bathroom. And if I find one speck of dust on that floor—" Sarah pointed a long, chipped nail at her, "—you won't sleep inside tonight."
The trio left, their laughter echoing down the hallway. Zaria peeled herself from the soaked mattress, wringing out her shirt as her teeth chattered. She changed into her only dry clothes—faded jeans and a stretched-out T-shirt with a cartoon print that had long since cracked and peeled.
The room wasn't even hers, not really. It used to be a closet. When her father remarried, Sarah emptied out old boxes and shoved in a mattress, telling Zaria, "You should be grateful you're even sleeping under a roof." The walls were bare, the air stale. A single cracked window let in weak light from the back alley.
Zaria stood for a long moment, staring at her reflection in the broken shard of mirror she kept on the windowsill. Her braids were frizzy from sleeping wet. Her eyes were puffy. She looked nothing like the girl from her dream.
Downstairs, the house buzzed with life. Music played from Claire's room, loud and careless. Mary complained loudly about needing new shoes. Sarah was already yelling at someone on the phone. It was chaos—loud, messy, and painfully routine.
They weren't rich, but they weren't poor either. Her stepmother liked to tell people, "We do alright," as if Zaria's hunger didn't count. The house was decent—two floors, peeling paint, furniture bought in the 90s—but it was the love that was missing. That made it feel more like a cage than a home.
In the kitchen, dishes were piled high in the sink, the greasy smell of last night's food still lingering. Zaria rolled up her sleeves and began to scrub. Her fingers ached, but she didn't stop. The sooner she finished, the sooner she could disappear into a corner where no one would notice her.
Her stomach growled.
She hadn't eaten since the small piece of bread she'd snuck the night before. But she knew better than to touch anything without permission. That rule had been made clear with the back of Sarah's hand.
After scrubbing the last plate, Zaria sat for a moment on the back step outside. The sun hadn't fully risen, and a thin mist hovered above the ground. The air was damp, the concrete cold beneath her.
Today was her twelfth birthday. She hadn't expected cake or presents. Not even a kind word. But still… a part of her, small and stubborn, had hoped someone would remember.
She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them, staring at the orange sky above the rooftops. Somewhere, other girls were waking up to kisses from their mothers, warm pancakes, laughter. Somewhere, someone was being told they mattered.
But not here.
Zaria whispered to herself, "Happy birthday, Zaria," and let herself feel it—just for a second.
Behind her, the back door creaked open.
Sarah's voice stabbed through the air. "You finished sulking? The bathroom won't clean itself."
Zaria stood slowly. She didn't reply.
But something inside her stirred.
Maybe it was the dream still clinging to the corners of her mind. Maybe it was the raw edge of being forgotten again. Maybe it was just the need to believe in something.
As she turned to go back inside, she said quietly—almost too quiet to hear—
"One day, they'll call me madam for real."
And the door slammed behind her.