Chapter 1: The Villain’s Daughter Knocks Twice

Everyone in this town called my mom the villain, even when she wasn’t around to hear it.

I always felt that label lingered in our cramped kitchen, especially when the lights were low and her mug of tea steamed quietly on the counter, as if she could still hear what people said about her even after everything. Sometimes, I wondered if the walls soaked up all that talk—like the peeling paint knew our secrets better than anyone.

Three months after her funeral, the main guy and his high school sweetheart finally got together.

It was all over Facebook, with people dropping heart emojis and tagging their friends with fire memes. They even had their own couple hashtag. I’d see their pictures while scrolling, my thumb hovering, unable to bring myself to hit the little heart.

Everyone gushed about their dazzling love story—nobody cared that my mom’s grave was still fresh.

In this town, people craved a fairytale ending, even if it meant ignoring the mess left behind. Each week, the flowers on her grave wilted a little more, and no one ever stopped by, except me.

While everyone else moved on, grief stuck to us like gum on a shoe. And for some people, it was too heavy to shake off.

When the so-called villain heard the news, he swallowed more than half a bottle of sleeping pills, made a cut on his wrist, and quietly lay down in the bathtub.

No one was supposed to know about that—the man who always looked put together, the one who kept his car clean and his blinds drawn. But pain finds a way to seep through cracks, even when you try to hide it.

As his body grew cold,

I carried my little backpack, knocked on his apartment door, and asked in a small, shaky voice, “Um, excuse me... Are you Elliot Foster? My mom said you’re my dad.”

1

Elliot Foster’s face was ghostly pale, his whole figure thin and frail.

He looked like he’d just gotten back from the ER or pulled an all-nighter with nothing but black coffee and regrets. Even his old Yankees sweatshirt hung loose, like he’d shrunk inside it.

He stared at me, brow furrowed. “Whose kid are you?”

The hallway light flickered, making shadows under his eyes look even deeper. His voice was scratchy, like he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days.

I blinked and answered, “My name is Zoe Mitchell. My mom’s name was Anna Mitchell. Are you Mr. Elliot Foster?”

I clutched the straps of my backpack tighter, feeling the fabric bite into my palm. Mom always told me to look people in the eye, but I kept glancing at my shoes instead.

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “I am.”

My eyes instantly filled with tears. I rushed into his arms, sobbing, “Daddy, I finally found you!”

The words came out broken, half-choked with hope and fear. I could feel the warmth of his shirt against my cheek, the sharp scent of his aftershave and something bitter underneath.

Elliot’s mouth twitched. After struggling for a moment, he finally pried me out of his embrace. His arms were stiff, like he was afraid I’d break if he held on—or maybe he’d break himself. “Sorry, I don’t know you. I don’t know your mom either.”

A patch of his shirt at the waist was already damp from my tears.

He glanced at it, a hint of disgust in his eyes.

He kind of looked at me the way you look at a stray dog that wandered up to your porch—like you don’t want to hurt it, but you’re afraid to let it in.

I pouted, feeling really sad. “Daddy, why don’t you want to recognize me?”

My lower lip quivered, and I looked at my sneakers, shuffling them on the mat. My voice got smaller, like maybe if I didn’t speak too loudly he’d change his mind.

Elliot: “...”

He closed the door. “Go home, kid. I can’t deal with this right now.”

His voice sounded tired, and the door thunked shut before I could even say anything else. I was left staring at the peeling paint and the brass 304 on his apartment door. Somewhere down the hall, a dog barked and someone’s TV played the morning news way too loud. I felt like the loneliest person in the world.

Two minutes later, I pressed the doorbell again.

“Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong.”

Each ring echoed through the hallway like a dare. My finger hovered over the button, and I waited, hugging my backpack.

When Elliot opened the door again, he looked even more haggard. His wrist was hastily bandaged, his face ashen. Seeing me still outside, he was clearly impatient. “What is it now?”

He tried to look intimidating, but his shoulders were slumped, and he kept glancing over my head, as if hoping someone would come claim me and end the awkward standoff.

I stood on tiptoe, peering inside, twisting my fingers awkwardly. “Daddy, can I come in and have something to eat? I’m really hungry.”

My stomach growled at just the right moment, loud enough to make him wince. I tried to look as small and harmless as possible, clutching the edge of my faded jacket.

Elliot gritted his teeth. “...How many times do I have to say it? I’m not your dad.”

He raked a hand through his hair, frustration painted all over his face. The kind of look adults get when the day’s been too long and the coffee’s run out.

I looked innocent. “But Mom said you are my dad.”

I said it softly, like it was a secret I was letting him in on.

He replied, “I don’t know your mom.”

His voice sounded almost pleading now, like he desperately wanted that to be true.

“Then how did Mom have me with you?”

My question hung in the air. I could see his jaw clench, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the doorframe.

Elliot closed his eyes and walked back inside.

He didn’t say anything else—just disappeared into the dimness of his apartment. For a second, I wondered if I’d broken him.

I was just about to follow when he grabbed some bread and a carton of milk from the fridge and shoved them into my arms, his tone gloomy. “Don’t let me hear you ring the doorbell again.”

His hand shook a little as he handed me the food, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes. The milk was cold, condensation beading on the carton.

With that, the door slammed shut.

I stood there, stunned for a moment.

Everything felt too big—his apartment, the hallway, even the silence. The noise from a TV a few doors down sounded a world away.

Then I sat on the steps outside his door, looked at the bread in my hand, and slowly started eating.

The tile was cold, and I tucked my knees under my chin, chewing on the stale bread like it was the best thing I’d ever tasted. I tried to remember the last time I’d eaten with Mom.

The bread was dry, so I took a gulp of milk.

It tasted sweet and cold, almost enough to make the bread go down easier. I watched a bug crawl across the step and wished I was anywhere but here.

The wind was strong; I hunched my shoulders against the cold.

A draft curled around the building corners, carrying the smell of rain and car exhaust. I pulled my hoodie tighter, wishing I had my mittens.

So cold.

And I really needed to pee.

I bounced my knees, hugging my backpack tighter, wishing the cold tile would swallow me up.

I wiggled in place, trying to hold it. My legs were numb from the cold, and I started to cry quietly, the kind of tears you hope no one sees.

With no other choice, I stood at the door again.

He wouldn’t let me ring the doorbell, so I knocked instead.

“Knock, knock, knock.”

Each knock was softer than the last. I tried to imagine I was brave, like the superheroes Mom used to read me about.

“Knock, knock, knock.”

My knuckles stung, but I kept going. I didn’t know what else to do.

I knocked for so long that the neighbor across the hall poked her head out to see what was going on.

She was wearing a fluffy blue robe, hair in curlers, holding a mug of coffee that smelled like hazelnut. She gave me a curious once-over, then glanced at Elliot’s door, frowning.

Finally, Elliot, unable to take it any longer, opened the door.

He looked like he’d aged a decade in ten minutes, the bandage on his wrist peeking out from his sleeve. His eyes went wide when he saw me still there.

I sneezed and, with teary eyes, said, “Daddy, I’m sorry, but I can’t hold it anymore. I need to pee.”

The lady from across the hall came out, covering her mouth in surprise. “Mr. Foster, is this your daughter? I’ve never seen her before.”

She was the kind of neighbor who’d bring you a casserole if your cat died, but also tell everyone at bingo about your overdue rent. Her eyes darted between us, curiosity and concern mingling in her voice.

Elliot’s face turned completely dark.

He looked like he wanted to crawl back inside and lock the world out, but when he saw me shivering, he exhaled sharply. The door creaked as he moved aside.

Seeing me shivering in the cold wind, he took a deep breath and stepped aside. “Come in.”

His tone was brusque, but I could tell he didn’t really want to leave me out there. The place smelled like burnt coffee, lemony cleaning spray, and that musty odor old apartments get when no one opens the windows enough.