Annabelle leaned against the locked door.

Her hand rested on the knob as if steadying herself for the storm she was about to unleash.

The air in the room felt heavy.

Thick with the unspoken truths that had festered for years.

The warm cream walls and gentle floral patterns on the quilt were a cruel contrast to the suffocating tension between mother and daughter.

The sunlight filtering through the curtains seemed to mock the darkness about to spill into the room.

Mauve sat in her wheelchair near the centre of the room.

Her face was drawn and pale, but her lips pressed into a stubborn line.

She looked up at...