Chapter 3: Hunger Games—Chicago Edition

The first six times, I swallowed my pride, apologized, humbled myself, and kept belittling myself just to satisfy Mom’s need for control.

I’d text her apologies, even if I knew deep down I wasn’t wrong. I’d call her and promise I’d change, anything just to keep the peace and the money coming. It was exhausting.

I was like a dog, and Mom’s allowance was the leash, tight around my neck.

That leash had a choke chain, and every time I tried to pull away, it snapped back. I hated that feeling—dependent, powerless, desperate for scraps.

I was miserable, but too afraid to break free.

It was like there was an invisible fence around my life, and I kept shocking myself every time I got too close to the edge. Independence sounded good on paper, but in real life? Terrifying.

I’d just left home, was timid, and clung to the idea of family. I thought, even if the whole world abandoned me, at least home would take me in.

I used to think family was a safety net. Now it felt more like a spider web—once you’re stuck, it’s hard to get free.

Now I get it: after leaving home, there’s no storm outside. Almost all my pain comes from Mom—and that suffocating home.

I could breathe easier in the city wind than I ever could in my childhood bedroom. Freedom wasn’t scary—the real monster was the one waiting for me back in the suburbs.

I slumped at my desk and started budgeting in my notebook.

I dug out my battered composition book, the one with hearts doodled on the cover, and started listing out every single expense. Rent. Groceries. Emergency coffee fund. The page filled up fast, the numbers not adding up.

$65 for a month. This is going to be tough.

I ran my finger down the column, crossing out every non-essential. No room for error. No room for fun. Definitely no room for new shoes.

Just then, my roommate Aubrey came back from class and invited me to try the dining hall’s new BBQ pork sandwich.

She breezed in, coat flapping, her cheeks red from the wind. “Rach, you gotta try this new BBQ pork thing downstairs! Smells like heaven.”

I swallowed. A BBQ pork sandwich is $7—way over budget.

That’s almost half my weekly allowance. I could hear the coins rattling in my imaginary piggy bank, screaming, “Don’t do it!”

Nope, can’t afford it.

I shook my head, trying to look casual. My stomach had other ideas.

I forced a smile and declined, claiming I needed to diet and wouldn’t be eating dinner tonight.

“Trying to cut back,” I said, patting my stomach. “Gotta fit into my winter coat, right?” She rolled her eyes, but didn’t press.

My stomach growled even louder as Aubrey walked away, and I clenched my jaw to keep from tearing up.

Right on cue, my body betrayed me. There it was—the telltale cramp, the warmth, the sense of dread. Of course it would be now.

A dull ache started in my lower back—the kind of pain that makes you want to curl up with a heating pad and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. Oh no, is my period coming?

Great, just what I needed. The universe really knows how to kick a girl when she’s down.

I sighed and opened my drawer, only to find a single lonely panty liner hiding in the corner.

I stared at it like it might multiply if I wished hard enough. No such luck.

The $16 I’d just received had already gone to class dues—the class president had been chasing me for ages, so I had no choice.

I’d Venmo’d the money to Jessica for the group project supplies. Now I had exactly sixty cents left, and a new wave of panic.

There was only $0.60 left in my Venmo account. My part-time wages wouldn’t be paid until tomorrow.

I tried not to spiral. Tomorrow, my paycheck would land, but today, I was broke. So broke, even the vending machine would reject me.

Now I didn’t even have money for tampons.

Tampons are not a luxury, but they sure feel like one when you’re counting change. I wondered if the campus health center gave out free samples.

I lay face-down on my desk, utterly defeated.

I buried my face in my arms, willing myself not to cry. The room was quiet except for the muffled sounds of traffic drifting in from Clark Street.

Aubrey saw my miserable state and asked gently, “Rach, is your mom refusing to send you money again?”

She had that voice—soft, careful, like she was worried I might break. I appreciated it more than I could say.

I sighed. “It’s not that she’s not sending it—it’s just $65 a month, $16 a week. I have to budget every cent, or I’ll run out before the month’s over. And asking Mom for more is just… impossible.”

My voice cracked a little. Aubrey just nodded, sliding her backpack to the floor, settling in for the drama.

Last month, I went over by $20 because I bought some supplementary books.

I’d needed them for a core class, and even the used copies were pricey. I’d tried explaining to Mom—big mistake.

After I carefully explained to Mom, she really laid into me.

She went off. Like, epic lecture. It didn’t matter how logical or necessary my explanation was. I could practically see her pacing her kitchen while she scolded me.

She said that back in her day, they didn’t have all these extra books—they just copied questions and practiced, and still did well.

She always brings up the old days, when she supposedly aced calculus with nothing but a No. 2 pencil and grit.

She said I was living too comfortably and didn’t value money.

To her, anything above bare survival is luxury. I can’t win.

She lectured me for an hour, on speakerphone in front of my whole dorm.

That was the worst part—the humiliation. My roommates pretending not to listen, the silence stretching on forever. I’d never wanted to disappear more.

Mom’s pressure made me feel suffocated, and my roommates’ sympathetic looks made it even more humiliating.

I could see them exchange glances, trying not to make it obvious. But pity is a language you can’t unhear.

Since then, my roommates have tried not to invite me to expensive meals, instead hunting for dining hall deals so we can all save money together.

It turned into a weird game—who could find the best $3 meal, or hack the salad bar for extra protein. If it weren’t for them, I’d probably be living off ketchup packets.

Especially Aubrey—a girl from Chicago, beautiful and kind, who often shares her food with me.

She’s got this way of making you feel included even when you’re flat broke. She’s all city energy and sharp wit, never making me feel small about my budget.

For my pride, she always finds excuses for me to help her with errands, organize materials, or take notes, so I can feel like I’m earning my share.

She’ll say, “Help me with this spreadsheet?” or “Can you edit my paper?”—little ways to keep the scales balanced. I love her for that.