Chapter 3: Out of the Shadows

Mrs. Fields pinched pennies, switching off every light at 9 p.m. sharp. I’d sneak out to the community center and study under the porch light, surrounded by the buzz of crickets and the distant hum of traffic. Sometimes the janitor would nod as he mopped the hall.

She’d grumble, "Why does a girl need to study so much? You’ll just get married, have kids, and serve your husband. That’s just the way things go. My Trevor isn’t like your dad. If he ever ditches his wife and kid, I’ll wring his neck myself." She’d say it with a half-smile, but her voice was serious.

I ignored her, fueled by coffee and grit, pouring myself into my books late into the night.

My dad was a piece of work, but after college, he bought a suburban house, moved his new family out, and even donated money to pave a road in town—Julian Lane. The sign gleamed in the sunlight, and the mayor made a speech about local pride.

His name was Julian Fields. Whenever I was angry, I’d stomp up and down that road, kicking gravel, wishing I could scrub his name from the sign.

I was always top of my class, and the neighbors said I got my brains from my dad. No one ever mentioned my mom’s heart or her talent.

She wrote poetry, and under my bed I kept a box of her notebooks, thick with her elegant handwriting and verses. She taught me math and writing, but buried herself for love. Sometimes, I’d sneak out a poem and read it by flashlight under the covers.

Trevor was two years older, but with his bad grades, he was held back and ended up in my class. I tutored him every day. If he dozed off, I’d poke him with his mom’s knitting needle. Mrs. Fields would laugh, "Boys need a little fire under their feet."

In our last mock SAT, Trevor finally scraped past the cutoff for a state college. We celebrated with ice cream sandwiches from the corner store, the wrappers sticky and sweet.

When the real results came, I got into Columbia—the first from our town ever. The mayor threw a party at the community center, hanging banners and beating drums. People brought homemade casseroles, the smell of cheese and onions filling the air.

My grandfather, who rarely spoke to me, pressed $100 into my hand. His eyes were wet. "You’re even more promising than your mom," he whispered, his hand trembling.

My teacher hugged me tight, smelling of chalk dust and peppermint. "Emily, you earned this."

Trevor got into a state university up north. He tried to look proud, but I saw the envy in his eyes.

Mrs. Fields sat me down, folding her hands. "Emily, take me to New York. I want to work. You and Trevor need money for college." She packed her bags with nervous excitement, folding each blouse as if it were gold.

I didn’t love Mrs. Fields—she was nosy and always scheming. But she’d raised Trevor alone, surviving on grit. I respected her toughness, even if I didn’t like her.

Trevor needed money for school, and Mrs. Fields had spent her whole life in town. Now she faced the big city for her son. I felt a pang of sympathy watching her stare at the subway map, lost and anxious.

I agreed, planning to work part-time and help out if I could. It felt like the least I could do.