chapter nineteen / season three.

AARON HOTCHNER HAD NEVER HATED HIS HOUSE.

He had once loved the white paneling that contrasted the dark blue window shutters, he loved the weekends that he spent with his (once) wife where they planted flowers into the window boxes and flower beds.

He loved his hoarders collection in the garage that Haley had once forced him to go through, luckily he had been called on a case so the boxes had never actually been sorted through.

Now it wasn't so lucky, considering he now had to find a storage unit for all these boxes as the amount of stuff in them was no longer going to fit in the apartment he had bought for himself and Jack.

And now, Aaron didn't love his house. Because it wasn't his.

The white paneling, the dark blue shutters and the dying flowers were not his.

The garage was no longer his to stock pile with boxes.

Jack's bedroom, that they had spent a whole weekend painting a dark blue and sticking glow in the dark space stickers on the wall, would no longer be the room he read Jack bedtime stories in.

The bedroom he once shared with his wife, was now just Haley's.

He'd never have to clean the bath out from one of Haley's bath bombs that contained copious amounts of glitter, or the hair down the drain, or the water jug that Jack filled with some sort of soapy concoction.

Aaron didn't have to do those jobs anymore.

The jobs he had always claimed to hate. Were now the jobs he was going to miss most.

His new apartment didn't have window shutters, it didn't have any flower boxes, and it most certainly didn't have any white paneling. He had a dark brown brick outside, a green canopy at the entrance, a tiny balcony, two bedrooms and two bathrooms.

Both bathrooms had showers.

Aaron didn't like that.

He had tried searching for an apartment with a bath under short notice but had failed to find one, and Aaron didn't want to spend another second in the house that he hated.

Not when he knew Haley was waiting to move back in and raise their boy.

He couldn't make her wait any longer.

Aaron had made her wait for years.

She shouldn't have to wait for him any longer.

"What you doin', daddy?" The sweet boy sat on the edge of what used to be his daddy's double bed and watched him fold multiple dress shirts into one of the many suitcases that littered all over the house.

Aaron paused his folding to reach over and ruffle Jack's hair, "I'm packing."

"What for?" Jack asked, as innocent as ever, (Aaron wished he could always be this way) and the little boy seemed to perk up, "For a holiday?"

I wish.

"No, buddy."

At the declination, Jack frowned.

Aaron paused what he was doing.

He always did when he saw that frown.

It was his frown.

It was potentially the only thing Jack had inherited from his father: his frown.

His mother had the light hair, the happiness, the kind heart, a smile that brought a breath of fresh air with her. And Jack inherited all that goodness.

And then he got his father's frown.

The one thing Aaron could guarantee he'd see in the mirror every morning.

Aaron wished Jack wouldn't frown. Aaron frowned too often. Jack should never have reason to frown.

Aaron placed the shirt down onto a larger collection of shirts and sat down beside Jack on the bed, "We can't go on holiday, right now, but maybe in a couple weekends we'll take a little break, just you and I, how about that?"

A weekend. Aaron felt like he could promise his son one weekend.

Jack's frown was washed away in an instant, "Really? Can mommy come?"

Aaron didn't even really want to answer that question. No parenting book could ever prepare him for the talk. The talk where he has to tell his son that he'll spend the weekdays at his mom's house, and then come see his dad for the weekend (if they were lucky) how Christmas will not be spent with his two parents but the morning at one house, and the evening at another. That his parents still loved each other, but they just can't function together anymore.

How daddy hadn't been good enough of a husband, how he'd failed and was still trying his best to not fail as a father.

(And he's clinging onto to the hope of that one)

No parenting book can teach Aaron that.

Haley had tried to tell the boy that things were going to change, but Jack had been a little too preoccupied naming the dinosaurs on the sleeve of his pajamas.

Aaron moved from being sat down next to Jack, to now crouching down in front of the little boy, "Do you remember what mommy told you, Jack?"

The boy hummed, "Yeah, she told me that she doesn't like crackers 'cause it's too... what's the word?"

"Savory?"

Jack nodded, happily, "Yeah! That's the one. That's why mommy doesn't like crackers."

I know.

Aaron nodded his head, "That's right. But, do you remember what she said about change?"

Jack furrowed his eyebrows in thought, "Something about summer into fall?"

"No, Jack."

"Oh."

"Do you remember her saying how you two will be back living in your house, and how daddy won't be here anymore?" Jack frowned again, and Aaron suddenly wanted to stop explaining. "How daddy is going to have his own apartment, which will have a room for you in?"

Jack remembered that conversation in bits in pieces, with different dinosaur names replacing the actual important information.

"Do you remember that?" Aaron asked.

"Kinda." Jack admitted.

Aaron nodded his head, "That's alright. It's just..."

Daddy fucked everything up and now mommy realized she could be with someone ten times better?

He doubted he could tell his son that.

"Mommy and daddy love each other, lots and lots, but being together isn't working for us."

Jack looked up at his father, Aaron could only detect one thing.

Fear.

"And that's okay, it happens to mommies and daddies sometimes. They just need to do what's best for their children."

Aaron. He's scared.

Aaron rested his hands on his son's kneecap, "Buddy, we both still love you, okay? It's just mommy and daddy can't be together anymore, and things are going to be changing for all of us."

Jack's bottom lip wobbled, "Are you still going to be my daddy?"

"Of course, I am, Jack." Aaron reassured. Moving his hands away from the kneecaps and instead picking the boy up by his armpits and sitting him on his lap, facing him round the right way. "One thing that is never, ever going to change is that I'm your daddy, and mommy will always be your mommy."

"And we are both always going to love you, just from different houses, okay?"

"Okay..." Jack whispered.

"You and mommy are going to stay in this house, with the garden, yeah? You like the garden?" Jack nodded his head and toyed with the top button on Aaron's polo.

Focusing on anything other than Aaron.

"And you'll spend the weekdays here, you remember the weekdays?"

"Monday," Jack sniffled, "Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday."

Aaron wiped the one, singular tear that fell from his son's eye, "That's right, you're so smart, Jack."

Jack looked up from his father's polo buttons, "And when will I see you, daddy?"

"On the weekends. Saturday and Sunday."

"That's only two days..." Jack said, lowering his head again and growing quiet.

"I know."

He wished it wasn't. He wished it was longer. He wished it was three or four. Maybe even seven. But, Aaron would never be so lucky to spend so long with his son.

It would be humanely impossible for Aaron Hotchner to go seven days without getting called in. And if it ever happened the world would be ending.

"Is it..." Jack sniffled, again, "Is it because you're catching the bad guys on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Wednesday?"

"And Friday." Aaron added on, smiling sadly at his boy, "Daddy has to catch the bad guys so that it's safer for you when you grow up."

It would probably never be safer.

There would always be worse people out there.

"That's cool." Jack admitted and wiped his snotty nose with the sleeve of his shirt.

Aaron rolled his eyes and wondered how many times the boy had been reminded not to do that.

Aaron only hummed in response to his son's statement. Jack would realize it isn't so cool when he grows up, not when he realizes the job will always come before him.

Aaron found his hands to rub up and down Jack's back in a comforting manner, "Do you remember what we are doing today, did mommy tell you?"

Jack shook his head. Haley had told him, the boy had just forgotten.

"We're going to see daddy's new house. That's what all these suitcases are for, they have all of daddy's stuff in."

Jack didn't seem to like that.

"Why can't you stay?" He whispered.

"Because..."

Because? Why, Aaron?

How can you tell your son that you're a failure as a husband, and the one thing that might redeem you is leaving the house so that your son and Haley can live in it now. How about that Aaron?

Telling the boy who thinks you hung the moon and the stars what a complete failure you are. (If only your father could see how right he'd been...)

"Because mommy and I work better as two separate people, and we want to do our best to make sure you grow up in the best possible way." Just don't grow up to be like me, Jack.

"But, just because I'm not here Jack, doesn't make anything different." It makes every fucking difference, Aaron. "I still love you even in an apartment ten minutes away, okay?"

"Is that far?"

"Not at all."

"Good."

Aaron's hand kept rubbing at Jack's back.

And Jack kept Aaron's button between his two fingers.

✺

There wasn't much talking between the two for the remainder of the morning, according to a quick search that was apparently a good things as it meant that Jack was processing his feelings.

Aaron hoped that would be a good thing.

Jack had his infamous dinosaur teddy, Rex, clutched in his hands as they drove the short drive to his dad's new apartment.

Aaron, on the way, had sworn he'd driven past Amelia's apartment building.

"That's the one, Jack." Aaron pointed out the window at the tall building they had now arrived outside of, the green canopy over the doors with a similar shade of green roll out carpet underneath it.

Jack hummed and showed his teddy bear the building. "Rex likes it because it's green."

Aaron twisted in the front seat to turn to his son, "And what about you?"

"It's big."

"You should see the inside." Aaron raised his eyebrows.

The inside was not that large. He just hoped it would please his boy.

"Do they have fish under the floor?" Jack queried tilting his head to the side.

Aaron frowned, "No..."

Jack frowned.

Aaron wanted get rid of it instantly.

"They had to get rid of it!" He rushed to cover up his declination, "Um, because the fish, yeah the fish, they used to eat little boys for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert!"

Jack gasped and tightened his hold around Rex's neck, "No!"

Aaron nodded his head with a hum, "You better be glad there's no fish under the glass here."

Aaron got out of the car, and opened Jack's car door.

"I thought fish only ate people in the movies."

Aaron paused him movements of unbuckling his son, "What movies have you been watching?"

"Good ones."

The good ones were to not be discussed further or even watched by the boy as Aaron brought him up to the apartment with one of the many suitcases trailing behind him.

Maybe offering to carry Jack up hadn't been his best idea when he had a whole boot full of suitcases.

And maybe offering to take Jack this weekend hadn't been a good idea when he had to move in. Aaron hadn't thought it to be a bad idea, and he was desperate to see his son.

"Number 8." Jack mused as they stood opposite the golden numbering and dark brown door.

"81." Aaron said each individual number and pointed at them.

"80." Jack paused, "1."

Aaron smiled and ruffled his boy's hair, "Good job, buddy."

The door unlocked and Jack gasped, and essentially leaped out of his dad's arms to press his nose to the massive window in the living room, a mist appearing in the shape of his nostrils and mouth. "Look daddy!" Came the muffled the voice of Jack.

Aaron laughed quietly, tugging the suitcase inside, shutting the door and soon finding himself in the same position as Jack pressed against the window.

"Look at all the cars! And look a yellow one!" Jack reached over and punched his dad on the arm.

Aaron yelped, "What was that for? We don't punch, Jack."

"Yellow car game, me and mommy play it."

"Do you now?" Aaron wondered, "Do you also punch daddy as hard as you punch mommy?"

Jack scoffed, "No, mommy is a lady."

It was nice to know Haley had been raising a gentleman.

"But my arm really hurts." Aaron pouted holding his arm out beside his son and pointing dramatically at a spot on his arm. (The spot he had not even been hit on.)

Jack frowned and pressed a tentative kiss to his dad's arm, "Sorry, daddy."

Aaron smiled and picked Jack up by his legs and swung him over his shoulder, "It didn't really hurt that much."

Aaron laughed at Jack's giggles and shouts of wanting to be put down.

"I'm giving you the tour, Jack!"

"Can't see!" Jack exclaimed, "'M upside down!"

Aaron rolled his eyes, even if his son couldn't see, "That's how you're supposed to do house tours."

"Upside down!" Jack screeched.

Aaron laughed, "Yes."

"I don't like it!"

Aaron laughed quietly and dropped Jack onto the sofa that came with the apartment already, a soft blue material that would definitely have to be covered in blankets so that neither Hotchner boy could make a mess. "There we go."

"Phew."

"My room?" Jack asked, admiring the TV that Aaron had already brought to the apartment that just needed to be set up.

"In your dreams." Aaron muttered and picked the boy up, leading him down the hallway, "Bathroom, but we don't really care about the bathroom, do we, buddy?"

"Nah."

Aaron knocked twice on Jack's door and pushed the door open to a room that had a massive window - that the boy would love pushing his face against - that already had space curtains hung up, a bed that had sheets with aliens and UFOs on, a dinosaur night light above his bed and the glow in the dark stickers Jack had back at home.

"Daddy!" Jack squealed, running to the larger dinosaur teddy in the corner of the room, "Thank you! Thank you! I love it!"

"I knew you would." Aaron smiled and sat himself down onto Jack's bed, "And look here, Jack."

Jack was pulled out of his trance when his dad pulled out five new books out from under his bed pillow.

Jack's jaw dropped to the floor.

"Are those the new dinosaur books!" Aaron nodded his head with a smile, "The ones you said we couldn't get?"

"The exact ones." Aaron confirmed.

Jack leapt into his dad's arms, "Thank you, I love you, daddy."

Aaron pressed a kiss to Jack's temple. "I love you too, buddy."

"And, if you're really helpful today, we'll read two books before bed!"

"Two!?"

✺

Aaron might've hated his house, but he didn't hate his apartment.

He and Jack had already laughed in it, cried in it (they both stubbed their toes on the sharp edges of the coffee table.) and had already had a takeaway to linger inside the apartment for a few hours.

Aaron, while enjoying himself in the company of his son, couldn't deny that something was missing. There was always going to be something that was missing. The interjection from Haley when her boys wanted to put on a film that she despised, or the whispering in Jack's ear so that they could tackle Aaron in hugs, or smother his cheek in kisses.

He was going to miss that.

They'd be civil, of course they would, but they'd never be Aaron and Haley again, not in that capacity.

Aaron would like to say he was sorry. That he wished he could fix it all, and never have to lose Haley like this.

But they both knew it wouldn't work. The apology couldn't fix the mess he had created, the damage he had done to their marriage: irreversible damage.

Haley would be better off.

And Aaron didn't know what he'd be.

Maybe one day he'd forgive himself. (Highly, highly unlikely.)

But for now, Aaron had to read his son two bedtime stories. Bedtime stories Jack insisted he mimicked the dinosaurs in.

"No, daddy, you aren't doing it right." Jack sighed, exasperatedly. "You have to be more dinosaur like."

One thing Aaron was, seemingly, uneducated in was how to be dinosaur like.

Jack mimicked something of a girlish scream, "Like that." He smiled proudly and pointed back at the dinosaur in the book, "Your turn."

When Aaron had first been told he was going to be a father he was ecstatic, albeit extremely worried that he would never be good enough or present enough for his son, but ecstatic. This was his chance to be better than his parents had ever been, love his son unconditionally; not send him away to some school and never look back, or never even send their son a letter once a month.

Aaron was never going to do that. He was going to be a good dad, which was something he was still trying to be.

The books never told Aaron how his hands would shake as he cradled his son in his arms, that there would be no better feeling in the world than holding his own son or that he'd be sat with half his body on, and the other half off of his son's bed as he replicated dinosaur sounds that he'd had to practice for half an hour before Jack decided they were just right.

So, maybe Aaron Hotchner despised the house he once lived in with the window shutters and the dying plants but he had a new home, one that had some taking getting used to, one which still had a fresh coat of paint on the walls and a stain on the windows from Jack's nostrils.

But, it was a home.

One Aaron was making his mission not to hate.

✺

Amelia Levine had always hated her home.

And that's not the apartment that had a whiteboard in its dining room, with paint stained onto the floor of her bedroom after Emily spilt it on the floor, or the dark blue walls of her entryway painted by Derek Morgan and Spencer Reid, and the living room with the slow paintstrokes of David Rossi and Aaron Hotchner.

No. Not that home.

Amelia means Washington. The place that had never really felt like a home to her.

She's been many places, lived in many houses but she had to admit that Washington was the worst. (And she'd lived in Florida.)

(Albeit, that she doesn't actually remember Florida but she'd definitely been there)

The flower beds were filled with roses and daisies, that her mother spent weekends tending to, with the window boxes filled with fake flowers of all sorts, her father's suggestion that her mother shouldn't spend more time in the garden. The yellow paneling was the only one of its kind on the street, the rest were all tones of creams or greys.

Martha had always wanted a yellow house.

The window shutters and garage door had been painted a dark blue by Thomas one night when he'd gotten fed up of arguing with his wife over what color they should paint it.

She hadn't been too pleased the next day.

In fact, no one had ever been too pleased in this house. There had been too many tears, too many arguments, too many lies in this house and worst of all there had been too much screaming and shouting.

Thomas supposed that when Amelia turned sixteen she decided to grow a backbone and stand up for herself, that hadn't lasted very long. And even then he and Martha never stopped arguing in those years.

Amelia would sit with her back to her bedroom door, having no choice but to listen in; wondering why her mother preached about telling someone the truth, but the two never seemed to agree.

And the truth was never told.

And on top of that, Amelia had been discouraged in this house, poked fun at by her father for the career she wanted.

On her seventeenth birthday, Amelia spent hours staring at the ceiling thinking; is he right? He'd always been right before so what would make this any different? Maybe I'm not cut out for the FBI after all, maybe I should be a doctor.

It's not too late.

It had been too late to change Amelia's mind. Because when Thomas had come home on that day ranting and raving about his last surgery of the day and completely disregarding or forgetting his daughter's birthday, Amelia had realized that she never wanted a job to consume her like that.

But, God, it had hadn't it?

Amelia had never wanted to be like Thomas Levine. But, just after six months, of being in the BAU she found likeliness in her father that she never wanted to see.

And no, that's not in appearance. Amelia couldn't look further from her father if she tried. He had the paler complexion, the green eyes, the bump on the bridge of his nose, the mole on his left cheek and muscle on his arms, legs etc etc.

People would often ask if he was even the father.

(Amelia had failed to notice the way he would tense)

Amelia meant that she had forgotten key dates, just like he always would, blame the hectic schedule and promise to make it next time, she'd used that tone over the phone whenever someone called, she isolated herself away from her co-workers.

(The difference was Thomas did it full time while Amelia only did it when things got bad.)

(Just because her life was bad, didn't mean she had to make theirs bad as well.)

Amelia had even spotted a frown on her face when she looked in the mirror.

She was becoming the man she had always hated.

(Amelia should hate more men, she just can't bring herself to do so.)

This was the man who had hated her, so why couldn't she return the favor? Amelia had stopped playing nice months ago, she couldn't physically play nice for her mother's sake anymore. Being nice to Thomas Levine was like being nice to the one celebrity you hate with every bone in your body.

The poison drips through more than Amelia would like to admit.

But, as she stood and folded her pajamas back into the suitcase that she'd only pack two days ago, she knew she hated this house more than any other.

The walls were this yellow color, which would've been nice if they weren't on the bodily fluid scale and on those yellow walls were two blue shelves which held photo frames, and dusty certificates from Amelia's time at school and hair clips and bobbles scattered amongst them. There was one poster in the entire room, something to do with horses.

Odd. Considering Amelia had never shown an interest in horses her whole life.

Amelia supposed her mother had bought it for one of her birthdays in hopes of getting the girl out of the house and making horse girl friends.

The bedding was white, with yellow pillows and a grey throw on top. The pillows had always been stained with mascara if Amelia remembered correctly, and if not the mascara then the sleeve of her pajama shirt would wipe away any mascara or loose snot or dribble.

Even as a teenager, her mother could never get her to stop.

"What are you doing, Amelia?" Speak of the devil. Another thing Martha could never get Amelia to do was stay more than two days at the Washington home.

Amelia didn't know how anyone could last more than two days in this house without wanting to do something drastic.

"Packing." Amelia mumbled. For once, she regretted that the word had to fall from her lips. Amelia wanted to stay longer, (she would if she could stomach it), she wanted to be there for her mother.

But, she couldn't.

She had a job, which Strauss wanted her back for by Monday.

It was currently Sunday morning. Her flight back home was just after one o'clock in the afternoon.

That was only five hours away.

"Cariño, por favor."

Amelia tried to hide the way her folding motion faltered, but that was impossible. It had been hard to miss the way she stopped folding the shirt in her hands and instead gripped it tightly.

Even though Amelia had come from a Mexican decent on her mother's side, the family had rarely ever spoken Spanish to one another, or even used Spanish terms of endearment for one another. If anything, Martha avoided her own heritage and had never taught it to her daughter.

Amelia had called her abuela, Grandma.

Her father had insisted on it.

He'd also insisted that Amelia and Martha refrained from speaking in Spanish to one another, just because he hadn't been bothered to learn it himself.

That had never stopped Amelia from learning it with her Grandma. They learnt it in secret.

And Martha had been taught the language from a young age, but even now the words didn't sound right leaving her lips. They sounded forced, and broken.

And Amelia knew that her mother only ever spoke to her Spanish when she wanted something.

It was a wonderful guilt trip tactic that Amelia had failed to see before. But, now she saw it.

And it reminded her of every-time she had fallen for it, inside this house. Inside her San Fransisco house. Inside her Seattle house. Probably, even in the Florida house.

"Why can't you stay?" Martha asked, her hand reaching out for Amelia's arm.

Amelia didn't pull away like she thought she would, she let Martha's hand rest there, squeezing at her clothed arm. "You know why."

Martha was naïve enough to think that Amelia just meant work.

"I'm sure if you tried hard enough, Strauss would give you a couple more days off." Martha whispered, her head looking up to the open door every so often just to make sure Thomas wouldn't come in, make jibes at Amelia and make the agent want to leave home five hours earlier.

Amelia wished Strauss was the only problem in this scenario.

"I tried." Amelia admitted, her arm moving away from her mother's to return back to her packing. There was just two more shirts left to fold and shove back in the suitcase.

Terribly, it felt like a relief; knowing that her time in this house would soon be over.

But, it was selfish. It was so terribly selfish. It was selfish of Amelia to want to be out of this house while her mother suffered. Suffered in the comfort of her father, and suffered with coming to terms with her diagnosis (a second time around.)

Amelia wanted to offer that her mother comes and stays with her, at the apartment. The apartment that always had a light on, with the paint splatters, with the snow globes. The apartment that had more laughter and less tears. But, Amelia knew that invite would have to be extended to her father.

Amelia couldn't stomach him in her apartment.

"I'll call everyday, no matter where I am. And if you really need me here, then I'll make the trip, but I can't stay."

Martha sighed.

Amelia felt the guilt blossom within her.

She wasn't the same person she was the last time this happened. Amelia wasn't the eighteen year old who would willingly put her dreams on hold to make sure her mother was okay, the eighteen year old who actually had a father that held her tight and promised they'd get through this together.

She was nearly thirty. She had her dream job. She didn't think she'd give that up for anyone. And she certainly didn't have a father... a father who held her tightly and said that everything is going to get better. Martha is going to get better, we're going to get better.

Amelia wasn't the naïve eighteen year old who still clung to that hope that maybe, just maybe, one day she'll make her father proud.

She wasn't naïve enough to believe this family was a family.

Sometimes she wished she was. But, at other times she felt sick at her own naïvety.

Martha didn't say anything. And that wasn't because she had nothing to say, it was because he stood in the doorway.

His arms were crossed across his chest, leant against the door frame, he already had disappointment clouding his eyes. "Amelia? What are you doing?"

Amelia didn't look up at him.

She'd been here for two days and had in those two days managed to only get in one argument with him, in the kitchen, when her mother had gone to bed. Amelia had tried to seek some form of comfort from him, but instead it had just been a berating that she had missed the doctor's appointment and that he had felt the pressure to comfort his wife instead of her.

Amelia swore the appointment was next month. She'd swear her life on it if she had to.

"Packing."

"Why?"

Martha rolled her eyes at the one word conversation.

"Work." You.

"Did you not book the days off, to be with your family?" He asked, incredulously.

"I booked them off for next month." Amelia folded the last shirt into her suitcase.

The only sound heard in the room, could be the noise her suitcase made as she zipped it up.

And then there was a scoff.

"You silly girl. I mean how could you get the dates mixed up?"

"Thomas." Martha warned.

Amelia kept her head down. Surely, it wasn't anything she hadn't heard before.

"No, Martha, our daughter is in the FBI and can't even book the right days off work to be with us. How good-for-nothing—"

"Thomas." There was chill to Martha's tone, a chill Thomas had been on the receiving end many a time, a chill that Amelia had never heard.

Amelia had never seen her mother interrupt her father.

She pinched herself just to check she was dreaming.

"Our daughter tried her hardest to get the days off to be here with us, but she could only get this weekend and in my eyes that's better than nothing. And she'll come back next month, so we'll take what we can get." Martha told him, "And let's not forget, we already discussed how difficult it would be to work with Amelia and her job."

He'd always known.

He just never listened.

He scoffed, his mouth opened to speak again.

But, Martha glared at him and it seemed like his mouth was glued shut.

Amelia wished it would stay that way forever.

In this house, she wished she'd been mischievous enough (and brave enough) to just one night get a bottle of glue and pour it onto his lips as he slept one night.

No one would hear him the next morning.

No one would hear him again.

And maybe then, Amelia would've liked this house.

There would've less mascara stains on her pillows, and less stained sleeves. There would've been less certificates on her shelves that she had won just to please him. The walls wouldn't have been yellow. There wouldn't be a useless horse poster. There would be crime books, crime show posters.

It would've made Amelia feel like a real person, in her own home. And it wouldn't have felt like she'd hidden her true self away.

If Thomas Levine had just been kinder, maybe then Amelia wouldn't have despised her house.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
i had every chapter prewritten before this within like a close time span, but with this one you can clearly tell when i started and then came back to it like three weeks later 😭 (i am running out of prewritten chapters help) BUT, HAPPY APRIL FOOLS TO OUR FAVORITE FOOLS GUYS!!

also i am getting nervous about my writing lately LMAO so if these next few chapters are bad i apologize in advance because the next like 3 chapters took me a collective amount of 4 months to write 🙃