The morning air was thick with the smell of fried beans drifting from the neighbor's house. Frances stretched her aching arms, the soreness from hours of sewing still clinging to her muscles. She forced herself out of bed before the others, determined to set the tone of strength her sisters depended on.
She lit the small charcoal stove, humming softly to steady her nerves. Soon Daisy shuffled in, her hair wild from sleep.
"You're up early again," Daisy said, rubbing her eyes.
Frances smiled faintly. "Someone has to make sure you girls don't starve."
Daisy frowned. "I don't like when you say it like that. We're not your children, Frances . We're your sisters."
Frances paused, touched by her younger sister's words. But when Daisy looked at her with those bright, earnest eyes, all she could do was smooth down the girl's hair and whisper, "Sisters or not, I promised Mom I'd take care of you. And I keep my promises."
By the time the others woke, breakfast was ready. Simple pancakes, stretched thin between them. Clara and Clare argued over who would get the bigger slice, while Edith silently tore hers into pieces, eating slowly, her face still shadowed from last night's fight.
Frances noticed the bruise on Edith's cheek had darkened. Her stomach twisted with guilt.
After breakfast, Edith grabbed her school bag, muttering, "I'm going to class early."
"Edith, wait" Frances began, but her sister was already out the door.
Clara scoffed. "There she goes again. Acting like she's the only one who's angry."
"Clara," Frances warned, but the twin only shrugged.
"She's just like Dad," Clare added. "Always ready to fight."
The words stung, and Frances shot both twins a look that silenced them. But she knew in her heart there was some truth. Edith carried a fire inside her that could burn them all if left unchecked.
Later that day, Frances went to Mrs. Tella's again, stitching clothes until her fingers cramped. But as she sewed, her mind kept wandering to Edith. How long until she gets into real trouble? How long until Dad notices she's rebelling?
On her way back, she passed the local market. Voices rose and fell, bargaining, shouting, laughing. Amid the noise, Frances caught sight of Edith in the crowd, her tall figure, tense posture, and clenched fists.
Two boys stood in front of her, jeering, one shoving her shoulder.
"Soldier girl, eh?" one sneered. "Bet you cry like the rest of your sisters."
Before Frances could react, Edith moved. A quick, practiced strike to the boy's arm, then a sharp shove sent him stumbling back. The second boy lunged, but Edith sidestepped and swept his legs out from under him.
Gasps rippled through the market.
Frances rushed forward, grabbing Edith's wrist. "Enough!" she hissed, pulling her sister away before the crowd grew uglier.
Edith's eyes blazed with fury, her chest heaving. "They mocked us, Frances . Mocked you. Mocked Mom. I won't stand for it."
Frances 's heart sank. The bruise on her sister's cheek, the blood on her knuckles, it was all becoming too much.
"You can't fight everyone," Frances whispered. "If you keep this up, you'll destroy yourself."
But Edith only pulled free, her voice low and unyielding. "Then let me destroy myself, if that's what it takes."
Back at home, the air was heavy with tension. Edith had stormed into the house ahead of Frances , slamming the door so hard the frame rattled. The twins, startled from their chatter, exchanged nervous glances.
"What happened this time?" Clara asked, already sounding annoyed.
Frances placed her sewing bag on the table, her voice weary. "Nothing worth fighting about."
"Really?" Clare pressed, raising a brow. "Then why does Edith's hand look like she punched a wall?"
Edith didn't answer. She dropped her bag with a loud thud, retreated to the corner of the room, and sat cross-legged on the floor. Her breathing was sharp, uneven.
Frances walked over slowly. "You can't keep doing this. You're scaring your sisters."
"Scaring them?" Edith snapped, her eyes flashing. "No, I'm protecting them. While you stitch clothes and smile politely at everyone, I'm the one making sure people know we're not weak. That we won't be pushed around."
"Protecting us doesn't mean hurting yourself," Frances said firmly.
Daisy, who had been quiet, finally spoke. "She's right, Edith. Every time you come home with a bruise, it hurts all of us. We worry. What if one day you don't come back?"
Edith's eyes softened at Daisy's words, but only for a moment. She pulled her knees to her chest and muttered, "Better me than all of you."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Clara, never good at holding her tongue, broke it. "You think you're the only one suffering? You're not the hero of this house, Edith. Frances has been holding everything together. You—"
"Enough!" Frances 's voice rang through the small room, silencing everyone. She rarely raised her voice, but when she did, it carried a weight none of them could ignore.
She looked at each of them, her eyes tired but fierce. "We're all broken in our own ways. Clara, Clare, stop taunting your sister. Daisy, stop blaming yourself. And Edith…" she turned last to the one who looked most fragile despite her anger, "…stop fighting battles that aren't yours to win."
Edith's lips parted, as if to argue, but then closed again. For the first time that day, her shoulders slumped, her fire dimming.
The room grew still. The only sound was the faint hum of cicadas outside the window.
Finally, Daisy crossed the room and sat beside Edith, placing her small hand over Edith's bruised knuckles. "You don't have to carry everything alone. You still have us."
For a heartbeat, Edith didn't move. Then, slowly, she allowed herself to lean into Daisy's warmth, her rigid posture softening.
Frances exhaled, relief washing through her chest. The storm had quieted for now. But she knew this was only the beginning. The threads holding them together were fraying, and she could already feel how easily they might unravel.
The following morning, Frances rose before the sun, her body aching from yesterday's arguments, but her mind determined. She tiptoed past her sleeping sisters, careful not to wake Edith, whose breathing had finally evened out after a restless night.
Mrs. Tella's shop smelled faintly of fabric dye and lavender oil when Frances arrived. The bell above the door jingled as she pushed it open, and Mrs. Tella herself looked up from the counter. Her keen eyes softened when she saw Frances .
"You're early," she remarked, tying off a thread. "Good. Fashion waits for no one."
Frances smiled faintly. "I didn't want to waste the day."
"Good girl," Mrs. Tella said, gesturing to the mannequin beside her. A half-finished gown hung over it, shimmering with delicate sequins. "You'll finish the hem today. Careful stitches—this client has the eyes of a hawk."
Frances nodded, slipping into the rhythm of work she knew so well. Thread, pull, knot. The hum of the sewing machine mingled with the quiet ticking of the clock. Here, she found a fragile peace, a place where her hands spoke louder than her pain.
But today, the peace was broken.
A tall man entered the shop, the air around him carrying something heavy, almost commanding. His suit was sleek, expensive, the kind Frances had only seen in glossy magazines. He removed his sunglasses, and for a brief moment, his dark eyes met hers.
Frances froze.
The stranger's gaze lingered—not in arrogance, but in quiet awe. He seemed startled, as though her blue eyes had caught him off guard. His expression flickered, softening in a way she couldn't name.
Mrs. Tella broke the moment. "Mr. Williams," she greeted warmly. "You're early."
Williams. So this was the famous CEO people whispered about the man expanding his fashion empire. Frances quickly looked down, pretending to focus on her stitches.
"I prefer punctuality," he said, his voice deep, carrying the weight of authority and something darker beneath. Grief, perhaps?
Mrs. Tella ushered him toward her office, but he paused by Frances 's table. "New apprentice?" he asked.
Frances 's heart raced. She kept her head bowed, afraid her voice might betray her.
"She's more than an apprentice," Mrs. Tella said with pride. "She has her mother's gift. A natural."
Williams's lips curved slightly, almost a smile. "Impressive." He held her gaze again, and for a breath too long, it felt as though the shop had narrowed to just the two of them—his shadow stretching over her, her heart pounding in her ears.
Then he nodded curtly and followed Mrs. Tella inside.
Frances exhaled shakily, her fingers trembling against the needle. She scolded herself silently. He was a client. Nothing more. And yet… something in his eyes unsettled her. Not just admiration, but recognition.
As she bent over the gown again, her curls falling across her face, she wondered why the memory of that look clung to her like a secret she wasn't ready to keep.
Frances tried to steady her hands, but no matter how carefully she stitched, her mind kept wandering back to the man who had walked in. His presence lingered in the air long after he disappeared into Mrs. Tella's office, like the faint trace of cologne that still brushed the edges of her senses.
For twenty minutes, she worked in silence, until the office door clicked open. Mr. Williams stepped out, his phone in one hand, his brow furrowed as though the world weighed heavily on his shoulders. He said something low to Mrs. Tella before turning toward the exit.
But then his gaze found Frances again.
She quickly bent her head, pretending to be engrossed in the hem of the gown. It didn't work. She could feel his footsteps draw closer until the faint sound of his polished shoes stopped right beside her table.
"You stitched that?" His voice was quieter now, gentler than before.
Frances hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, sir."
He studied the gown carefully, his expression unreadable. For a man known in the business world for his ruthless decisions, his focus here was unexpectedly tender. Finally, his eyes lifted to hers again, and Frances felt her breath hitch.
"You have precision," he said. "It's rare."
"Thank you," she murmured, uncertain of what else to say. Compliments weren't foreign, but from him, they felt… weighted.
Williams tilted his head slightly, as though trying to solve a puzzle. "What's your name?"
Her throat tightened. "Frances ."
"Frances ," he repeated slowly, almost tasting the sound. Then he gave the smallest nod, a gesture that felt like acknowledgment and approval in one. "Keep at it."
And with that, he slipped on his sunglasses and left, leaving Frances staring at the fabric in her hands as though it no longer made sense.
Mrs. Tella reemerged, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "You've caught his eye," she teased lightly.
Frances flushed. "I don't think so. He just… noticed my work."
"Men like Mr. Williams don't usually stop to notice," Mrs. Tella said knowingly, returning to her counter. "They're too busy thinking about empires. If he paused, it's because something—or someone—made him pause."
Frances shook her head quickly. "That's not possible. He's a CEO. I'm just… me."
"Never underestimate what you are, child," Mrs. Tella said gently. "The world has a way of surprising us."
That night, as Frances walked home with a bundle of fabric clutched to her chest, her mind kept replaying the way he had said her name. There had been no mockery, no dismissal, only a strange kind of respect.
But she pushed the thought aside as the gates of her father's house loomed before her. The moment her hand touched the rusting iron, reality returned with sharp clarity. Her life was here—with her sisters, their struggles, and the storm they lived in daily.
Still, as she slipped quietly inside, her heart carried a secret rhythm she couldn't silence: the weight of his eyes on hers, as if, for a fleeting moment, she had been truly seen.
The moment Frances slipped through the door, the sharp sound of raised voices greeted her. Her heart sank. Arguments had become too common in their house, and the tension always weighed heaviest at the end of the day.
In the sitting room, Edith stood rigid, her arms crossed, her jaw clenched. Clara and Clare sat on the worn sofa, whispering to each other with mischievous smirks, while Daisy sat in the corner clutching her school notebook. Little Lila, sensing trouble, peeked out from behind the kitchen curtain, her wide eyes darting between her sisters.
"You think you can boss us around just because you're the firstborn?" Edith snapped, her voice brimming with frustration. "You don't know everything, Frances . You're not Mum!"
Frances froze at the words, her chest tightening. It wasn't the first time Edith had lashed out, but tonight the sting was sharper. Perhaps it was the weariness in her bones or the lingering echo of Williams's unexpected gaze, but Frances felt the floor tilt beneath her.
"Edith, I'm not trying to replace Mum," she said softly, placing the bundle of fabric on the table. "But somebody has to keep things together."
Clare leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. "Maybe Edith's right. We're not kids anymore. We can make our own choices without you telling us what to do."
"Exactly," Clara chimed in, her tone biting. "You act like this house belongs to you."
Frances took a steady breath. "I don't act like that. I only try to protect you. All of you." She glanced at Daisy and Lila, whose worried faces betrayed the cracks in their fragile family.
But Edith wasn't backing down. She stepped closer, her height and posture making her look even more intimidating. "You don't understand me, Frances . I don't want this life. I don't want to sew dresses or play nice. I want to fight. I want to be strong enough to protect myself, even if it means being a soldier like Dad."
The word "Dad" hung like poison in the air.
Frances 's voice wavered. "And you think following his path will bring you peace? He's broken, Edith. You see what it's done to him—how it's destroyed all of us."
Edith's fists trembled at her sides, but she said nothing more. Instead, she turned on her heel and stormed toward the door. "You'll never understand me," she muttered before slamming it shut.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Frances lowered herself onto the chair, pressing her palms to her eyes. She wanted to scream, to cry, but she had no time for tears. Clara and Clare shrugged and retreated upstairs, their whispers trailing behind them. Daisy hesitated, then crossed the room to squeeze Frances 's hand before following the twins.
That left only Lila. She padded over on bare feet and climbed onto Frances 's lap. "Don't cry, Frances ," she whispered, her tiny arms circling her sister's neck. "I still love you."
Frances hugged her tightly, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I love you too, Lila. More than anything."
But as the house fell into uneasy quiet, Frances realized something she
couldn't ignore: their once-united family was starting to splinter. And no matter how strong she tried to be, she couldn't hold all the threads together forever.