The walk back to my house from Wilson's café is a fairly short one, fifteen minutes maximum if all the traffic lights are working in my favour. A light breeze tickles the back of my neck as I walk and, after a few minutes, I loosen my hair from its ponytail for extra shelter.

The evening is oddly quiet, a stark contrast to the typical chaos that makes up Greencliff's town centre. There are no voices shouting or cars honking, no car doors slamming or sirens screeching in the distance.

It's a peaceful rarity that I savour as I stroll, my feet padding along the pavements in the direction of home. Even so, I hold my house key in my hand, prepared for the worst – the same thing do every time I walk home in the evening. In this town, you can never be too careful.

Thankfully, the only time I have to use my key tonight is to unlock my front door. As soon as I do, the peacefulness dissolves into the absolute carnage that consists of my family on a school night.

"Bailey, Owen, Oscar! I still need your school clothes!" Stella practically screams as she walks out of the kitchen to shout up the stairs.

There's no reply other than the sound of music blasting even louder from one of the rooms upstairs. I don't have to go and check to know that it's coming from Bailey's room; Bailey's had the whole rebellious act going on for as long as we've lived here.

In fact, I'm still shocked that Stella and George – her husband – even agreed to take the troubled child on in the first place. Most people wouldn't have.

"Bailey, turn the music down!" Stella screams up the stairs, and it's quite clear that she's reaching her limit of bullshit-from-the-kids for one day. "Owen, Oscar!"

"Okay, okay, jeez! Hold on!" Owen calls back over the sound of Bailey's music.

"I've asked five times now!" Stella replies, her blue eyes blazing with annoyance.

There are currently six of us living in this house. Stella and George Crawford, who occupy a bedroom next to the kitchen, and the four of us foster kids shared between the three bedrooms upstairs.

It's not bad, not at all, and I'm grateful every day for everything that Stella and George have done for us. There aren't many people willing to take in so many kids under one roof, and there's no denying it can be difficult at times, but they do it anyway – for us.

Stella found out when she was only twenty-two that she would never be able to have children of her own and, as raising a family had been her lifelong dream, it had left her heartbroken. The situation was made all the worse when her fiancé at the time left her because of it. Luckily for Stella, it all turned out okay in the end. If none of that had happened, she would've never had the chance to meet George.

George is one of us, a foster kid now grown into a fully-fledged middle-aged man – proof to all of us that things can, and will, get better. He never wanted kids of his own, determined that he would become a foster parent like the incredible ones he was so lucky to be placed with.

He met Stella and, well, they never looked back.

They took in Charlotte, Bailey and I – the three half-sisters with a troubled past. They wanted us all, deciding it would be better for us if we were allowed to stay together. Next came along Owen, I was about eleven at the time. Then, shortly after, Oscar arrived.

Despite living here we still have to check in with our social worker, Karen, from time to time. It's mainly just so she knows how we're all getting along – that Stella hasn't gotten so fed up with asking for school uniforms that she's murdered us all in our sleep. So far, thankfully, that hasn't happened.

I guess (if we're being technical) Karen doesn't have to check in with me like she used to. It's a weird feeling, to no longer be a concern to social services. The minute I turned eighteen (back in early September) I became a legal adult in the eyes of the law, and no longer their problem to monitor. She still says hello when she stops by, don't get me wrong – she still cares, even if the system dictates that she's not supposed to – but her visits are solely for the purpose of checking in on the minors of the household: Owen, Oscar, and Bailey.

"Oh, hey, how was work?" Stella asks, her voice noticeably calmer when she sees me.

"It was good," I reply, deciding against mentioning the surprise visit from the Coleman's. Stella can be a tad overprotective; it was hard enough getting her on board when I extended my hours to the evening shift.

Paul and Ellie were desperate for people to cover hours and, with only two other part-timers to help out (Carl and Sheila) they begged me to negotiate with Stella and George.

It was a difficult, somewhat awkward conversation, what with my being eighteen and, as such, a legal adult. Especially when we all know that there are only three A-levels standing between me and flying the nest. If not for my late start to education, I'd be gone already. I can't wait to go away to university.

As much as I love my family, I love the idea of blowing out of this shitty town, too.

Eventually, we came to an agreement that I think we're all mutually happy with. They won't stop me from working late because they trust I have good enough judgement to be safe and sensible, as long as I promise to let them know what nights I'm working and what time I'll be home.

Greencliff isn't a very safe place to be walking around alone at night. They worry.

I doubt they'd consider being around the Coleman's safe, either, and I don't want to give them any more reason to worry.

"Good. If you're hungry, there are some leftovers in the fridge from dinner."

"Thanks," I reply.

I have just enough time to heat up the leftover lasagne and take the first few bites before the screaming match starts upstairs. It's Bailey, it has to be. I guess Stella got fed up with waiting for her uniform.

I continue to eat and the yelling doesn't stop. Eventually, I sigh and stand up. I'm at the top of the stairs when Stella appears from Bailey's room, shutting the door with more force than necessary. The music is still blasting through the house and she's not holding any clothes, so my powers of deduction tell me that her attempt was unsuccessful.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Yes," she lies, moving to knock on Owen and Oscar's door instead.

I sigh and move to Bailey's door, knocking loudly and hearing her usual reply of "Get lost!" that I choose to ignore, opening the door anyway.

Bailey's room is small, which is the reason she doesn't have to share it. Not that anyone would actually want to share with her cheery self. The walls are a dark red, the one next to her bed plastered with posters of different rock bands.

The girl in question lies on her bed, her arms behind her head and eyes closed. It doesn't take me long to figure out why Stella couldn't get her uniform. She's lying on top of it, like the petty child that she is. With her eyes still shut, she doesn't know I'm here. I snatch up her phone and disconnect it from the speaker, the music halting.

"Hey!" she complains, opening her eyes and sitting up to glare at me. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Language," I snap at her. I'm getting so fed up of her attitude. "Uniform, now."

"Whatever," she replies, rolling her eyes.

"Cut the crap, Bailey," I snap, not even caring about being a hypocrite on the bad language front. "You're fifteen – nearly sixteen. Start acting like it and actually pull your weight around this place every once in a while."

The relationship between Bailey and I is a complicated one. Technically, we're half-sisters. We share the same father but she tends to just ignore that fact. I can't say I blame her, really. I mean, who wants to be reminded that they have his blood running through their veins? However, seeing as I've known her from the moment she was born (in the downstairs bathroom of our old house), I'm the only one living here that can actually sometimes get through to her.

Charlotte moved away last year and we took the loss hard. She was always the go-between when it came to Bailey and me. She was always able to sort out arguments between the pair of us, which happen quite often considering we're complete polar opposites. I miss her – a lot – and I know Bailey does, too.

"Why should I?" Bailey snaps back. "For as long as I'm stuck in this place I'm going to be treated like a kid, so I might as well act like one."

"Okay," I sigh, folding my arms and leaning my hip against the dresser. "This doesn't seem like your usual 'I-hate-the-world-and-everyone-in-it' temper tantrum. What's wrong?"

"Like you give a shit," she replies, folding her arms too. "Everyone knows you'd much rather be off shagging your boyfriend than talking to me."

I purse my lips at that but decide to let the comment go.

"That's not true, Bailey. I do care," I argue calmly.

"Bullshit," she replies. "You've never cared about anyone but yourself."

"Whatever, don't say I didn't try," I mutter. I move forward and yank the clothes out from under her, forcing her to move and let me take them.

"You know what, Bailey?" I ask, suddenly wanting to get this rant off my chest. "I get it, okay? You're angry. You're angry at the world because it showed you too early on in life just how shitty of a place it can be."

She scowls and opens her mouth – probably to say something bitchy that will piss me off more – but I don't let her speak.

"But guess what? You're not the only one who's gone through shit. Everyone in this place has had it rough and I'm angry, too!"

I'm on a roll, now, and I can't seem to stop.

"Here's the thing, though, Bailey: there are other people that live here, too! People that don't need to be subjected to your moping, all day, every day! So, next time you accuse me of not caring, maybe you should think of them! Grow the hell up and stop being so selfish!"

With this, I exit the room and go back down to the kitchen, dumping her clothes on the counter for Stella and returning to my dinner, the lasagne now cold.

Stella doesn't comment on what happened upstairs as she takes the uniform but I know she heard. The walls in this place are paper thin. 

Everyone heard.

*********