I was finally taking that solo trip I’d dreamed of for years. A quiet week, just me and a book, far from everything. But there was one thing holding me back: my plants. My collection of rare orchids, each one a tiny miracle I’d nurtured from a fragile seedling. They weren’t just plants; they were my sanity, my quiet obsession after a tumultuous few years. I couldn’t bear to leave them to chance.
My stepdaughter was home for the summer. She was quiet, mostly kept to herself, a whirlwind of headphones and art supplies. I loved her, of course, or at least I told myself I did. We were a family now. It seemed like a simple request.
“Hey, honey,” I started, trying for casual. “I’m heading out on Monday. Just for the week.”
A thoughtful woman | Source: Pexels
She looked up from her sketchbook, a faint, almost imperceptible tension in her shoulders. “Okay. Have fun.”
“I will. Listen, about the orchids… they need very specific watering. And misting. Twice a day, exactly. And the humidity tray needs topping up.” I pointed to the meticulously written schedule on the fridge. “I really need someone here. They’re so delicate, you know? They just wouldn’t survive a week alone.”
Her eyes dropped back to her sketch. Something shifted in them, just for a moment. A flicker of something I couldn’t quite place. “Oh. Right. Yeah, I can… I guess.” Her voice was soft, almost inaudible.
“You guess?” I felt a prickle of annoyance. It wasn’t a huge ask. I’d given her so much, opened my home, my life. “It’s really important. These aren’t just any plants. My therapist actually said they’re grounding for me.” I even threw in a little guilt-trip, remembering how I’d been there for her when she’d had a rough patch with school friends last year. “It would really mean a lot.”
A stuffed rabbit lying on the ground in a park | Source: Midjourney
She sighed, a tiny, almost silent expulsion of air. “Okay. Fine. I’ll stay.”
“Great!” I forced a bright smile. “Thank you! I knew I could count on you.” I honestly felt a wave of relief. My plants would be safe. My trip would be perfect.
The week away was everything I’d hoped for. Long walks on the beach, quiet evenings, no demands. I sent her a few texts, checking in on the orchids. She replied briefly, always assuring me they were fine. I didn’t worry, not really. Why would I? She was responsible. A little moody, yes, but responsible.
When I pulled into the driveway, the house looked exactly as I’d left it. The air inside smelled faintly of her incense, but otherwise, everything was normal. The orchids sat proudly in their spot, looking vibrant and healthy. She’d done it. My precious plants were safe. I felt a surge of gratitude.
“Hello?” I called out. No answer. She was probably out with friends, or just holed up in her room. I decided to unpack and then go thank her properly.
As I put my suitcase away, I noticed something odd. A faint, sweet, metallic smell. Like copper, but mixed with something else. It was strongest near her bedroom door. That’s weird. I pushed open her door, expecting to find her. The room was empty, her bed neatly made. But the smell was definitely stronger here. And then I saw it.
A bench with a light on it at night | Source: Pexels
On her bedside table, almost hidden under a stack of books, was a small, crumpled piece of paper. It looked like a hospital brochure, or something clinical. My heart gave a strange lurch. I picked it up, my fingers trembling slightly. It was a discharge summary. Not a serious one, just for observation, it seemed. And the date… The date was three days after I’d left. Three days she was supposed to be home, watering my plants.
Then, my eyes caught something glinting under her bed. I knelt down, my hand brushing aside a loose sweater. It was a small, clear plastic bag. Inside, a scattering of pills. Not her usual vitamins. Not something I recognized. And a thin, silver razor blade, pristine and chillingly clean.
My breath hitched. A cold dread seeped into my bones. I fumbled for her laptop, sitting open on her desk. She’d left her browser history up. It was a blur of pages: “crisis hotline numbers,” “how much does it take,” “painless methods.” One specific search stood out: “intensive inpatient treatment for severe depression.” And then, a saved PDF: “Intake Appointment Confirmation – [DATE OF MY TRIP’S DEPARTURE].”
My blood ran cold. The date she was supposed to be checking in to a facility. A facility that specialized in exactly what she had been researching. Her plan wasn’t just to go to an appointment. It was to get help. Crucial, desperate, life-saving help.
A close-up shot of a man sitting on a bench | Source: Pexels
I looked around the room, seeing it through a different lens. The drawings on her wall, suddenly so dark, so tormented. The subtle weight loss I’d dismissed as her growing up. The quietness I’d seen as typical teenage angst, now a profound, suffocating silence.
She wasn’t just staying home for my plants. She had a meticulously planned escape from her own despair. An escape that involved leaving on the very day I left, to finally confront the darkness consuming her. And I had stopped her. I had asked her to stay. For my orchids.
The metallic smell. The discharge paper. The pills. The razor. The search history. She hadn’t just missed her appointment. She had a crisis here, alone, in my home, while I was blissfully unaware on my trip. She’d endured something horrific, isolated, because I’d insisted she remain to care for my precious, fragile plants.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a silent scream clawing its way up my throat. What have I done? All those texts, her brief replies – she wasn’t just being responsible for the plants. She was fighting for her life, trying to keep herself together enough to fool me, to water my damn orchids, after a terrifying, desperate night.
A stuffed pink rabbit | Source: Unsplash
I called out her name again, my voice a strangled whisper. No answer. She still wasn’t home. I sank to the floor, clutching the crumpled discharge paper, the cold metal of the razor blade still fresh in my mind. My perfect plants, blooming, vibrant. They had lived. And she… she had almost died. And it was all because I asked my stepdaughter to stay home for my plants. What she had planned, and what she had endured instead, left me absolutely, utterly speechless. And completely broken.
