Chapter 3: Survival Skills

My mom was skilled—she quickly found her footing in the Evans family.

She’d learned how to drop the Evans name at the country club, ordering lattes at Starbucks like she’d always belonged. She smiled for the cameras, swapped casseroles with the neighbors, and played the gracious hostess at cocktail parties. She could sweet-talk anyone—from the gardener to the country club president—like she’d been born to it.

But her daughter didn’t share in her good fortune.

While she flaunted her new jewelry and perfect hair, I faded into the background, ignored or worse.

She basked in luxury every day, buying designer clothes, riding in a Tesla, spending money like water.

It was like she’d stepped into a movie about rich folks: shopping sprees, spa days, Instagram stories showing off every new thing. Sometimes she’d text me a photo of her nails—freshly done, baby-pink—while I was scrubbing bathrooms.

I still lived in the servants’ quarters, working like a beast of burden alongside the other housekeepers.

The sheets smelled faintly of bleach and old sweat, and I could hear the TV from the next room blaring Spanish soap operas. My room was barely bigger than a walk-in closet. The mattress sagged, and the walls were thin as paper—every night I heard the pipes rattle and the housekeepers gossip in Spanish or Tagalog until midnight.

They bullied me, making me do all the dirtiest, hardest chores.

I was the go-to for unclogging toilets, hauling trash, and mopping up after the family dog. No matter how hard I worked, it was never enough.

After the shoe-wiping incident, things only got worse.

My chores doubled overnight. It was as if Jason’s humiliation had marked me for target practice, and the rest of the staff didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire.

I bit my tongue, telling myself it was just another test—one I had to pass to survive.

I endured it, because I wanted to study. I didn’t want to go back to that poor trailer park where I could only eat meat a few times a year.

Every night, I sat at the kitchen table with old textbooks and flashcards, forcing myself to believe it was all temporary.

Only by staying in the Evans family could I keep going to school.

If I left, I’d lose my shot at a real education—my only way out.

I thought, if I could endure ten years in this family, I could make something of myself. Ten years, then I’d take the SATs and start a new life.

I’d mark the days off in my planner, counting down to freedom, convincing myself that ten years was survivable if it meant a future.

But in my senior year—the tenth year—my mom was caught in bed with another man and beaten nearly to death.

The news exploded like a grenade in the Evans house. Whispers turned to shouts, and I heard furniture breaking from behind locked doors.

She refused to admit her affair, screaming she’d kill whichever little bitch had set her up.

Her voice was wild, cracking with rage and desperation. I kept my distance, not sure who she blamed—maybe everyone.

That night, rain pouring down, Jason looked down at us—mother and daughter—like we were a pair of ridiculous clowns.

He stood in the foyer, arms folded, a storm in his eyes. The rain outside blurred the windows, making the house feel like an island.

That was the first time I truly felt the cold, bone-deep malice from him.

His gaze made my skin crawl. I realized then that all his past cruelty had just been the prelude.

His revenge began.

The world I’d clung to for survival was about to turn on me, and I could feel it in the air like the pressure before a tornado.