Zero Stars Left For Daddy

The day my father brought Candice and her daughter into our home, he taped a reward chart to the front of the refrigerator. He told me that if I collected one hundred red star stamps, he would grant me any wish in the world. For the sake of that promise, I swallowed every piece of unfairness. Even when he took only Courtney to the theme park, I never threw a tantrum. I stayed behind, folded the laundry, scrubbed the counters, and waited patiently for him to return and press another ink stamp into an empty square. Yesterday, the chart finally held ninety-nine stars. And yesterday night, my mother’s heart gave out. The amber prescription bottles in the bathroom were empty. No matter how hard I shook her, no matter how loudly I screamed into her chest, she wouldn't wake up. Clutching that wrinkled chart in my trembling fist, I dialed my father’s cell phone on my smartwatch. "Daddy... can I borrow my last star early? I want to trade it for you to come home. Please. Come save Mom." Over the line, Courtney began to whimper in the background. My father muffled the receiver, his voice tight with impatience. "Hazel, you’re turning just like your mother. One lie, and every single star on that chart gets wiped clean. I’m spending today at Candice’s family home. I don't care how dramatic your mother acts, or how convincingly she plays dead—I am not coming back." The call cut off. I hit redial again and again, but all that answered was the flat, mechanical drone of an empty line. Beside me on the sofa, Mom had stopped breathing entirely. I searched the drawers, found a red ballpoint pen, and drew a lopsided, crooked little flower in the very last box on the paper. Even with a hundred stars... Daddy was never going to grant my wish. 1 "Sweetheart, an adult has to sign the pronouncement of death. Where are the grown-ups in your family?" The ER physician pushed the thin sheet of paper across the cold stainless steel triage counter toward me. I stood on my tiptoes, resting both forearms against the chilled metal. "There aren't any other adults in my house, Doctor," I said. "My daddy went away to be someone else's dad." The doctor froze. A flash of bewilderment crossed his face, instantly swallowed by a wave of raw pity. He exhaled a long, heavy breath and slipped the form back into his clipboard. "In that case, we have to transfer the body to the morgue for cold storage. You need to contact Child Services or your local police precinct to step in. Otherwise, the crematory won't be able to process the release." I nodded, keeping my hands neatly at my sides. "Thank you, sir." When I stepped out through the automated sliding doors of the hospital, dawn had not yet broken. The streetlamps cast my small shadow across the damp asphalt, stretching it thin and solitary. Back at the apartment, the living room remained frozen in last night’s catastrophe. When the seizure took Mom, she had knocked over the glass coffee table, shattering her water glass into a thousand glittering shards. I found the broom and dustpan. Methodically, piece by piece, I swept the glass away. Then I brought out the mop and wiped down the puddle, erasing every smear and scuff left behind by her final, desperate struggle. I couldn't let anyone see her stripped of her dignity. Especially not Simon Archer. Just as I finished wringing out the mop, the front door lock chimed. The deadbolt turned. Simon strode inside, carrying several glossy luxury shopping bags. Behind him trailed Courtney in a brand-new ruffled dress, her hand clasped securely in Candice's. Simon glanced toward the dark, empty kitchen, his brows knitting into an immediate scowl. "Where is Marian?" He dropped the bags carelessly onto the entryway console. "Throwing another fit at the crack of dawn? The place is freezing, and there isn't even hot water on the stove." I stood by the edge of the sofa, watching him in silence. "Mom isn't home." Simon let out a mocking sneer, stripping off his suit jacket and tossing it onto an armchair. "She staged that pathetic little midnight drama with you, couldn't trick me into rushing back, and now that she realizes her bluff was called, she’s pulling the runaway wife routine?" Candice placed a gentle, conciliatory hand on Simon’s sleeve. "Simon, please don't be hard on Marian. She’s only upset because you spent the weekend with my parents. Maybe Courtney and I should pack our things and leave. Our being here only provokes her." Simon caught Candice’s wrist, his grip firm. "You're not going anywhere. This is your home now, too. If Marian wants to throw a tantrum, she can stay out there until she comes to her senses." Courtney let go of her mother’s hand and skipped over to the coffee table. With practiced familiarity, she pulled open the middle drawer and hauled out a box of imported Swiss chocolates. Mom had waited in line for two hours in the cold three days ago just to buy them for me. "Hey, Hazel," Courtney said, peeling back the gold foil and popping a chocolate into her mouth. "Did your mommy abandon you? Don't worry. My mommy is really sweet. She can be your mommy from now on." I walked over, reached out, and pulled the box out of her hands. "She is not my mom." Courtney’s lower lip quivered instantly, her eyes brimming with theatrical tears. "Uncle Simon! Hazel is being so mean! She won't even share one piece of candy with me!" Simon marched over, ripped the chocolate box straight out of my hands, and shoved it back into Courtney's chest. "Hazel Archer! Is this the garbage your mother teaches you? Courtney is your sister. You're going to pick a fight over a piece of candy?" I looked down at my empty palms. I didn't say a word. Seeing my silence, Simon assumed I was backing down like I always did. The edge in his voice softened slightly, and he picked up a decorative pastry box from the hall table. "Alright, drop the sour face," he muttered. "You wanted your reward yesterday, didn't you? It's your birthday today anyway. Consider this your prize." He set the bakery box on the dining table. Courtney hurried over, peering greedily through the clear plastic window. "Wow! It's that fancy strawberry shortcake from the French bakery! Strawberries are my absolute favorite!" Candice offered a soft, rehearsed reprimand. "Courtney, that's Hazel's birthday cake. You can't just take it." Simon didn't hesitate; he tugged the satin ribbon loose. "It's just a cake. If Courtney wants some, cut her a slice." He looked at me. "Hazel, you're the hostess here. Cut a piece for your sister. Did you hear me?" I stared through the plastic at the delicate white frosting. Piped in red gel across the top were the words: "Wishing Courtney Endless Joy." He hadn't even bothered to get the name right. "I don't want any," I said quietly, turning toward the hallway leading to my bedroom. "You bought it for her. Don't bother cutting me a piece." Behind me, Simon's temper flared anew. "Hazel! That petty, bitter attitude of yours is the spitting image of your mother! You tell her this when she calls: if she thinks vanishing is going to hold me hostage, she has another thing coming!" My fingers wrapped around my bedroom doorknob. I paused and looked back at him over my shoulder. "She didn't vanish." My voice was flat, hollow. "She left. And she is never coming back." 2 Simon scoffed, waving away my words like an irritating fly. "Never coming back? Fine by me. Let's see how long her little pride keeps her warm." He turned toward Candice, his tone instantly shifting into something warm and protective. "Candice, since she chose to abandon the house, you and Courtney take the master bedroom. That king mattress has plenty of room, especially with Courtney tossing around in her sleep." My hand froze on the knob. The master bedroom was Mom’s haven. She suffered from chronic, agonizing migraines and insomnia; she had personally tested beds from a dozen different stores before choosing that specific mattress. Every scented candle, every watercolor on the wall, had been chosen by her hands. Candice assumed an expression of pained reluctance, waving her hands in protest. "Simon, I can't do that. That's Marian's sanctuary. If an outsider moves into her space, she'll be heartbroken when she comes home. Courtney and I can just take the sleeper sofa. Really, I don't mind." Simon ignored her, hauling Candice's large rolling suitcase directly toward the master bedroom door. "There's nothing wrong with it. I pay the mortgage on this house, and I make the rules. She's the one who threw her life away for a fit of spite. If she wants to give up her place, it goes to someone who appreciates it." He kicked the master bedroom door open. "Come on. Let's clear her clutter out of the way." I let go of my doorknob and ran down the hall, stopping dead at the threshold of Mom’s room. Simon was already at the closet, tearing Mom's dresses off their wooden hangers and hurling them onto the floor. Her favorite emerald-green silk dress—the one she wore whenever she felt beautiful—fell beneath his leather dress shoe. He stepped right on the delicate fabric, grinding gray dust into the silk. "Don't touch my mother's things." I walked into the room, dropped to my knees, and gathered the emerald dress into my arms, hugging it tight against my chest. Simon looked down at me, his gaze entirely devoid of warmth. "Hazel, I really don't want to lose my temper and hit you today. Put the dress down and go sit in the living room." I buried my face in the silk, breathing in the faint scent of her lavender soap. "This belongs to Mom." Simon’s patience snapped. He reached down, grabbed the back of my shirt collar, and hoisted me off the floor like a sack of garbage. "I told you! If she had the guts to walk out, she doesn't get to keep her junk!" He threw me aside. I hit the hardwood floor out in the hallway with a sickening thud. The silk dress spilled from my grip. My elbow slammed hard against the baseboard, a shooting, white-hot pain ricocheting up my arm. I bit my lip until I tasted copper, but I didn't make a sound. Courtney stood near the doorway, giggling behind her small hands. She wandered over to the nightstand and picked up the tarnished, wind-up wristwatch resting beside the lamp. "Uncle Simon, look at this watch! It's so vintage and pretty. Can I have it?" My breath caught. That watch was the only heirloom my grandmother had left Mom before she passed away. The crystal was scratched, the leather strap frayed, but every single night, Mom would wipe the glass clean with a soft velvet cloth before going to sleep. Simon didn't even turn his head. "It's just an old piece of scrap metal. If you like it, take it." "No!" I scrambled up from the floor, throwing myself forward to snatch it back. Courtney let out a piercing shriek and darted behind Candice's skirt. "Mommy, help! Hazel’s trying to beat me up!" Candice pulled Courtney into her arms, her eyes welling with immediate, maternal distress as she looked at Simon. "Simon, Courtney grew up without a father—she's so fragile. Please don't let Hazel scare her like this." Simon caught me by the shoulders and shoved me violently backward. "Hazel! Have you completely lost your mind?" he roared. "Candice came here out of the goodness of her heart to look after you, and this is how you treat our guests?" My back crashed hard against the corridor wall, the air knocked out of my lungs in a dull, bruising ache. "That was my grandmother’s," I said, my voice eerily steady. "If you give it away, Mom will be devastated." Simon yanked at his necktie, laughing as if I had told the most ridiculous joke he'd ever heard. "Devastated? What does she know about feeling devastated? All that woman knows how to do is weaponize fake illnesses and run away to manipulate me!" He pointed an accusing finger at the pile of silk and linen heaped on the floor. "Go to the kitchen, get some heavy-duty contractor bags, and drag all of this down to the dumpster." I didn't move an inch. Simon walked over until he towered over me, his shadow blotting out the hallway light. "You think you can defy me now? Fine. If you won't throw it out, I'll pay someone else to do it." He pulled out his phone and dialed a local hauling service. "I need a two-man crew at my address immediately. Master bedroom. Strip every personal item, clothes, vanity supplies, and haul it straight to the dump." Thirty minutes later, two men in heavy canvas work pants arrived with thick black plastic sacks. Mom's cardigans, her hand-bound sketchbooks, her delicate glass perfume bottles, the dried hydrangeas she had kept from last spring—all of it was shoved violently into the yawning mouths of the bags. I stood in the shadow of the hallway corner, watching them systematically erase every proof that my mother had ever lived in this house. Courtney sat on the couch, swinging her patent leather shoes, rhythmically slamming the heirloom watch against the glass table with sharp, hollow clicks. Candice carried a glass of warm water over to Simon, her voice honeyed and soothing. "Simon, drink some water. Try to calm down. Marian might come back in a few days. If you throw everything away, she's going to cause such a scene when she returns." Simon took a sip, his mouth set in a hard, cruel line. "A scene? Let her try," he said, watching the movers carry the final black bag out through the front door. "When she crawls back, you make sure she understands: she doesn't set foot past that threshold until she gets on her knees and apologizes to both of you." I looked into the stripped, echoey vacancy of the master bedroom. "She won't apologize to them," I whispered into the quiet. I turned away and walked back toward my dark room. "And she will never fight with you again." 3 The following morning, while the sky was still a bruised, misty gray, I slipped out of the apartment. I had to visit the community outreach center. The director there was Mrs. Alvarez, a warm, stout woman with kind eyes who had worked alongside Mom organizing book drives for the local library. I sat in her small office and laid out the facts as plainly as I could: Dad was away on an extended business trip out of the country and couldn't be reached, and Mom had passed away suddenly during the night. Tears spilled over Mrs. Alvarez’s round cheeks. She pulled me into a tight hug that smelled of spearmint and wool, then took me by the hand to the county vital records office and the police precinct. Given the emergency circumstances, they fast-tracked the paperwork. When the official death certificate was finally handed to me, bearing its crisp, crimson registrar seal, I folded it carefully into quarters and slipped it into the inner chest pocket of my coat, right over my ribs. From there, I took the municipal bus across town to the county crematory. After completing the intake paperwork and paying the cold storage and cremation fees, the balance on Mom’s old checking account read exactly zero dollars and zero cents. The clerk behind the glass partition told me that due to the queue, the earliest date for the service would be three days from now. When I walked out of the building, the afternoon sunlight hit my face, sharp and blindingly bright. By the time I took the bus back home, it was past two in the afternoon. As soon as the apartment door cracked open, the scent of rich, savory food hit my nose. Simon was sitting at the head of the dining table, spooning sweet-and-sour pork tenderloin onto Courtney’s plate. That was Mom’s specialty. She only ever made it on special occasions—like the day I brought home a report card full of straight A's. Now, Candice was wearing Mom’s floral linen apron, carrying a tureen of soup out from the kitchen. "Hazel's home," Candice said, offering a practiced, gentle smile that made her look like the undisputed lady of the house. "Go wash your hands, sweetie. Lunch is ready." Simon glanced up at me, his fork coming down onto his plate with a sharp clatter. "Where the hell have you been wandering off to all morning? You're becoming completely undisciplined, just like your mother." I didn't take off my sneakers. I walked straight up to the dining table. "I had errands to run." Simon barked out a bitter laugh. "Errands? What errands does a seven-year-old run? You went looking for her, didn't you?" He set his fork aside, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "Tell me the truth. Which hotel is Marian hiding in? Did she send you back here to fetch her credit cards?" I looked him dead in the eye, my voice entirely flat. "She isn't hiding in a hotel." Simon’s face darkened, convinced I was covering for her. "Still lying for her!" He whipped his phone out of his slacks, brought up a mobile banking alert, and thrust the screen inches from my nose. "Explain this! This morning, over three thousand dollars was charged to her debit card in the South District! She claimed she left without a wallet, didn't she? Claimed she ran away with nothing?" He slammed his hand on the table. "Spending my hard-earned money gallivanting around the city while dumping her own daughter at home without a care in the world! That’s your sainted mother for you!" I looked at the number glowing on the screen. $3,200. The exact total for the refrigeration, processing, and cremation fees. "That was her own money," I said softly. "Her money?" Simon laughed, a sound dripping with pure contempt. "She hasn't worked a single day since she married me! She lived in luxury, never having to lift a finger! Every single penny that woman ever touched came out of my pocket!" Candice quickly set the soup bowl down, moving behind Simon’s chair to gently massage his tense shoulders. "Simon, don't let yourself get worked up over a child. Marian probably just needed to clear her head, maybe buy some new clothes. She’s entitled to spend a little, after all. She is your wife." Courtney, chewing on a piece of pork, piped up with her mouth full. "Uncle Simon, did Hazel's mommy really abandon her? There's a girl in my class whose mom stole her dad's cash and ran away, and she never came back ever again." Simon looked down at me, his gaze freezing over. "You hear that? Even Courtney has more sense than you do. Since your mother wants to act like a martyr, let her stay out in the cold. We’ll see how long she lasts once that card runs dry and she has to come crawling back on her knees." He paused, his voice dropping into something dangerous and final. "Starting tomorrow, you are forbidden from looking for her. If she doesn't walk through that door and beg for forgiveness, she will never set foot in this home again." I looked down at the glistening plate of pork tenderloin on the table. "She doesn't need your permission," I said. I turned toward the hallway. Simon’s palm cracked against the wooden table like a gunshot. "Stand right there!" I halted, but I didn't turn around. "This afternoon, Candice is taking Courtney to register for the youth arts program," Simon commanded, leaving no room for debate. "I remember Marian spent months pulling strings to secure an audition spot for the Metropolitan Youth Symphony. Courtney needs that spot far more than you do. Go get the registration packet and give it to Candice." I turned around slowly, staring at him. That audition packet was something Mom had stood in the freezing November rain for three hours to obtain, waiting outside the conductor’s studio until he finally agreed to hear a recording of my cello playing. Mom had told me I had a true gift, that this audition would be the door to a world where I could truly fly. "Mom got that for me," I said, my small hands balling into fists. Simon pinched the bridge of his nose, his irritation mounting. "You're seven years old. What do you know about opportunity? Courtney has a statewide piano showcase next month. Having the Youth Symphony on her transcript will guarantee her the prize. Your mother is playing ghost right now anyway—leaving that spot empty is just a complete waste." Candice feigned hesitation, gently tugging at Simon's arm. "Simon, this isn't right. Marian went to so much trouble for Hazel. Courtney shouldn't take it." Simon’s tone was iron. "I said it's fine. What I say goes in this house." He pointed at me. "Go fetch the folder. Don't make me drag you." Looking at his self-righteous, arrogant face, an overwhelming exhaustion washed through me. The anger didn't even burn anymore; it just turned to ash. "Okay," I said. I walked into my room, opened my desk drawer, and took out the blue folder stamped with the gold seal of the Youth Symphony. I carried it out and laid it flat on the dining table. Simon gathered the paperwork with a nod of satisfaction, handing it directly to Candice. "That's more like it." He didn't spare me another look. "I have to head to the office this afternoon. You stay in your room, and don't you dare give your Aunt Candice any trouble." 4 Three days later, my watch chimed with a call from the crematory. They told me Mom was ready to come home. During those three days, Simon had tried calling Mom’s phone dozens of times. But her battery had died that first night, and the phone remained locked at the very bottom of my sock drawer. To Simon, the silence was simply proof that she was waging a cold war against him. He retaliated by canceling her emergency credit cards and having a locksmith reprogram the keypad code to the front door. I stepped off the city bus clutching a square, black velvet box against my chest. It was terrifyingly light. Mom had been so tall, so full of warmth and soft embraces, and now, all that remained of her weighed less than my school backpack. I wrapped my windbreaker tightly around the box, holding it close to my ribs as I rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor. When the doors opened, I found our front door cracked open an inch. Courtney’s delighted laughter drifted into the hallway. "Mommy! Look at this necklace! It sparkles so pretty in the light!" I pushed the door open. Courtney was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, a delicate platinum-and-diamond pendant resting against her collarbone. It was the engagement necklace Simon had given Mom eight years ago. Mom treated it like holy glass; she never wore it to avoid scratching the setting, keeping it locked safely in her velvet jewelry tray. Candice leaned out from the kitchen where she was washing grapes, her tone lightly chiding. "Courtney, take that off right now. That belongs to Marian. If you break the chain, we can't afford to replace it." Yet there was no real scolding in her voice—only an indulgent, purring complacency. Courtney pouted. "Uncle Simon told me I could play with whatever I wanted in this house. He said that lady isn't ever coming back anyway." I walked over to the sofa and held out my hand. "Take it off." Courtney flinched, pulling back into the cushions. "I won't! Uncle Simon said it's mine!" I took another step forward, reaching out to unhook the clasp at the back of her neck. "Get off me!" Courtney shrieked, shoving me with all her weight. I was off balance, my arms occupied with guarding the velvet box. Her push sent me stumbling backward. My lower back struck the sharp corner of the glass table. My jacket slipped. The black velvet box tumbled from my grip, hitting the rug with a heavy, muffled thud. The wooden lid cracked open a sliver. My heart felt as though it had stopped beating entirely. On my hands and knees, I scrambled frantically across the floor, throwing my upper body over the box to shield it. Courtney leaned over the edge of the couch, peering down curiously. "What is that ugly black box? It's so creepy." She extended her leg, tapping the polished wood with the toe of her brand-new patent leather shoe. "Did you hide candy in there?" "Don't touch it!" I lunged forward, shoving her leg away with raw fury. Caught off balance, Courtney tumbled off the couch, landing hard on her bottom on the rug. Within seconds, she opened her mouth and began to wail at the top of her lungs. The door to the home office flew open. Simon strode out, his face thunderous. "Hazel Archer! What on earth is wrong with you now!" He scooped Courtney off the floor into his arms, patting her back with frantic tenderness. "Shh, baby, don't cry. Uncle Simon’s here. Where does it hurt?" Courtney buried her face in his neck, choking on exaggerated sobs. "Uncle Simon... Hazel hit me! She's hiding something in that ugly box and she tried to beat me up!" Simon’s sharp, unforgiving eyes snapped to the velvet container pinned beneath my chest. "What is that?" he demanded, his voice dropping into an icy register. I wrapped both arms around the box, my fingernails digging into the velvet. "It's nothing." "Don't play games with me." Simon stepped forward, gripped my wrist, and yanked my arm away with brutal force. "Give it here!" "Let go! Don't touch her!" I fought with everything I had, kicking and clawing, but the strength of a seven-year-old child was nothing against a grown man. He ripped the box from my grasp in one clean pull. The moment he realized what he was holding—an urn—the color drained from Simon's face, replaced instantly by profound disgust. His lip curled in revulsion. "What kind of sick, twisted joke is this?" He stared at the small brass nameplate, then glared down at me. "Did Marian put you up to this? She bought a fake funeral urn to curse me? Just to force me to apologize, she’s resorting to this level of vile, disgusting theatrics?" "It's not fake!" The scream tore from my throat, raw and fractured with terrifying rage. "Give her back to me!" I hurled myself forward to grab it, but Simon’s foot came up, his boot striking me squarely across the knee. I collapsed onto the rug, the pain bursting through my joint like shattered glass. Simon looked down at me from above, his eyes burning with pure contempt. "You tell your mother: she can set up a damn gravestone in my foyer, and I still won't give her the satisfaction of a single glance." He reared back his arm. With all his strength, he hurled the urn toward the entryway trash can. "Crack!" The box struck the doorframe, bounced off the rim of the bin, and slammed onto the hardwood floor. The lid split completely open. A cloud of pale, grayish-white ash spilled across the dark wood planks. I stared at the powder scattered across the floor, my mind instantly going entirely white. Beside me, Courtney pinched her nose in theatrical disgust. "Ew, gross! It's so dusty! It smells weird!" I fell to my hands and knees. Slowly, dragging my injured leg, I crawled toward the entryway. My hands shook so violently I could barely control them as I began scooping the fine, gritty ash back into my cupped palms. "That was Mom." "That was my mother." Simon stood over me, watching me crawl on the floor like a stray dog, his voice dripping with venom. "Hazel, you have been thoroughly ruined by that woman. Since you love digging through trash so much, you can stay on your knees right there. Don't you dare stand up or ask for dinner until you've cleared every speck of that filth off my floor." He took Courtney's hand and turned toward the dining room. Just then, two heavy, urgent knocks pounded against the front door. Through the wood came the breathless, worried voice of Mrs. Alvarez. "Mr. Archer! Are you inside? The officers from the precinct are here to speak with you!" Simon stopped in his tracks, his scowl deepening. "She actually called the cops?" He let out a harsh, incredulous laugh, marched to the door, and yanked it wide open. "Officers, I don't know what she told you, but there is no domestic dispute here. My wife is simply being an irrational, hysterical—" On the landing stood two uniformed patrol officers alongside Mrs. Alvarez. The older officer held a blue county records folder. He cut Simon off, his voice flat, solemn, and unyielding. "Are you Simon Archer?" Simon blinked. "Yes, but—" "Sir, we are here to officially notify you that the vital records registration and certificate of death for your wife, Marian Archer, have been finalized. As the legal next of kin, we require your final signature."