Chapter 2: Stolen Chances, Secret Promises

I kept my promise and didn’t tell my stepmom that my brother had come home. It felt like salvation, like I could finally breathe again.

For days, I walked with a spring in my step, humming under my breath. It was new for me. I let myself imagine a life where I could be happy, even just for a little while.

But reality hit me hard. My stepmom hid my acceptance letter. She sneered at me, told me straight to my face I was useless, a nobody dreaming of being a somebody. She said someone like me could never get into high school. If I hadn’t run into my middle school homeroom teacher—who came to the cemetery to leave flowers for my parents while I was cutting grass—I might have stayed in the dark forever. But by then, it was already mid-September, and I’d missed registration.

I remember the look on my teacher’s face when she found me, sweat-soaked and desperate, clutching the bag of grass I’d just cut. Her voice was gentle, but her eyes burned with anger when she realized what had happened.

I cried my heart out in the street, walked miles of country roads to town to call my brother, hoping he could come back to help me. He took the bus back overnight and tore into my stepmom the minute he walked in the door.

He banged on the kitchen table, voice shaking with rage. He never yelled like that before. The neighbors heard and gathered on the porch, whispering about the trouble in our house. For once, I didn’t care who saw me cry.

“How could you do something so heartless? Are you even human? Didn’t I say I’d support Mariah’s studies? What the hell is wrong with you?”

My stepmom fought back: “Your money? Your money’s my money, isn’t it? What’s the point of girls going to high school? Better to start working and get married as soon as possible!”

The shouting match went on for what felt like hours. Nobody ever won. I sat on the stairs, knees pulled to my chest, wishing I could disappear into the wallpaper.

That night, my brother smashed a lot of things and apologized to me over and over. I didn’t blame him. My entrance exam scores were good—if not for my stepmom, I could have gone to the best high school in the city. Maybe that’s just how things go for me.

He wrapped his arms around me, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry, Mariah. I’m so sorry.” I shook my head. Tried to believe it wasn’t his fault.

But my brother wouldn’t take no for an answer. He took me around for days, begged a lot of people, and finally a rural high school agreed to take me. He arranged for me to board at school, gave me money, and told me to focus on studying—he was already interning and earning a decent living.

He packed my bags himself, tucking snacks and a new notebook into the side pocket. “Don’t look back,” he whispered. I wanted to believe him. I promised I wouldn’t.

Away from home, my time at school was fulfilling and comfortable. Jamie was my best friend there. I often envied her—she had a loving family, her parents treated her well, always packed her lunch with care. She always shared a fried sausage with me and smiled, “Let’s keep studying hard, make money, and live in a big city someday. My parents are great. I’ll bring them to the city one day, let them live the good life. We’ll never come back here.”

I’d watch her open her lunchbox, the food arranged with care, and wonder what it felt like to be loved that way. I tried not to be jealous. Jamie’s optimism was infectious, her laughter brightening even the grayest days.

But at the start of our sophomore year, she stopped coming to school. I kept waiting for her in the hallway. Then one day, I got a letter. She said she was getting married.

I stared at the letter for a long time, rereading her careful handwriting. My heart sank. No way. Not Jamie. Refusing to believe it was true.

Of course, I didn’t believe it. That day, I ran wildly down the gravel road, breaking the strap on the sandals I’d worn for two years. I barely noticed. I didn’t get to Jamie’s house until dusk. She was wearing a red dress, letting people put makeup on her face with a numb expression.

The house was crowded, filled with the smell of cheap perfume and fried chicken. I pushed through the women fussing over her, my heart pounding in my chest.

I broke down crying. Jamie heard my voice and cried too. She pulled me into her room, and we hugged. We sobbed. We didn’t let go.

We sat on her bed, holding hands, our tears soaking the pillow between us. For a moment, it was just the two of us, clinging to a future that had slipped away. I wanted to freeze time.

She held my hand. “My dad gambled and owes a lot of money. He sold me, Mariah. Just like that. But what can I do? He’s my dad. If he can’t pay, they’ll hurt him. I can’t just watch that happen.”

Her voice was barely a whisper, but her eyes were fierce. I wanted to scream, to tell her to run. But I knew she wouldn’t.

I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t.

Words stuck in my throat, useless and heavy. Nothing came out. I squeezed her hand, hoping she could feel all the things I couldn’t say.

“Maybe this is my fate? I heard the man I’m marrying looks okay, he’s honest, gave our family five grand as a dowry. Anyway, at this point, honest or not doesn’t matter. Mariah, tell me, I made it to high school—why am I only worth five grand?”

Her laugh was bitter, her eyes shining with unshed tears. I wanted to tell her she was worth the world, but I couldn’t find the words. I still can’t.

Before I left, Jamie gave me a bag of wedding candy with a note inside. “Help me get out of here someday.”

I tucked the candy and note into my backpack, promising myself I’d never forget her dream. I still haven’t.

Time passed quickly. My stepmom’s darling little boy didn’t even pass the middle school entrance exam. Even then, she couldn’t bear to hit him.

She paced the kitchen, wringing her hands, her voice rising with every word. My younger brother just stared at the floor, unmoved. He didn’t care.

“How can you not study?” she said first thing.

My younger brother pouted. “Whatever, I’ll just get a job.”

He shrugged, picking at the peeling wallpaper, already checked out of the conversation.

I don’t know where I found the courage, but I actually said, “Didn’t you say studying is useless? So let him work, right?”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. My heart raced. I thought I was in trouble. As everyone turned to stare at me.

My stepmom slapped me, but for once, I felt oddly happy. It didn’t matter, as long as she didn’t do worse.

My cheek burned, but inside, I felt a strange sense of victory. For once, I’d spoken up for myself. It felt good.

She cried and begged my dad to pull some strings for my younger brother. My dad is selfish and cares about appearances—asking him to beg for my brother was harder than pulling teeth. He pushed my stepmom away: “If he can’t pass, let him work. He can help me out at the garage.”

Dad’s voice was gruff, his pride wounded. I could tell he hated the idea of his son working in the garage, but not enough to fight for him. He just let it go.

When my stepmom heard this, she collapsed on the sofa, sobbing. “How can you say that? Isn’t he your son? He’s just a kid! He’s never done a day of hard work in his life. He can’t even wash dishes!”

Her wailing filled the house, echoing off the cracked walls. I watched from the hallway, feeling invisible as always. Nothing new.

She made a huge fuss, pestering my dad for days. He finally gave in, paid a lot of fees, and got my younger brother into a middle school. The fees were expensive, so my stepmom took it out on me: “Just so you know, even if you get into college, we’re not paying for you.”

I expected her to say that. But I felt almost sick—almost grateful, thinking that just finishing high school and not being sold off like Jamie was already a blessing. It was better than nothing. Still, I was anxious. I stayed at school as much as possible, never going home during holidays, afraid that if I did, I wouldn’t be allowed back to school.

I kept my suitcase packed under my bed, just in case. I was always ready to run. The thought of going home made my stomach twist. I’d rather sleep in the library than risk it.

In senior year, I made it into the honors class. The studies were intense, but I was satisfied. I was fighting for my dream, trying to get out. It was hard, but fulfilling.

Late nights in the study hall, surrounded by the hum of fluorescent lights and the scratch of pencils, I finally felt like I belonged somewhere. Even if it was just for a while.

My brother took a week off to be with me during the SATs, booked a motel near the school, and bought me all kinds of good food. I asked him why he was so good to me when we weren’t related by blood. He just said it was what he owed me. I knew he meant because of my stepmom, but he was nothing like her. I never blamed him. I was grateful to him.

He made sure I ate three meals a day, quizzed me on vocab, even walked me to the test center every morning. When I tried to thank him, he just ruffled my hair and told me to focus on my future. I tried.

It was a miracle for a rural high school to have a student admitted to a university, let alone a top one. But I believed in myself. But I forgot about my luck—or lack of it.

I carried my lucky pen, the one Jamie gave me, and whispered a prayer before every test. I tried not to hope too much, afraid of jinxing myself. Didn’t want to get my hopes up.

Halfway through the last exam, my stomach suddenly felt like it was being stabbed. I didn’t stop writing—I just pressed hard on my stomach, let the sweat drip down my face, and focused on the test. As soon as the bell rang, I collapsed, curled up on the floor, still in pain. Everyone in the exam room was scared. In less than three minutes, I forced myself to stand up because I heard someone say they were calling an ambulance. Ambulances were expensive—one trip cost a hundred bucks, and I had no money. No way I could afford that. I gritted my teeth and endured it.

My vision blurred, but I forced myself to breathe, counting the seconds until the pain faded. I’d made it this far—I wasn’t about to give up now. Not after everything.

I sat outside the school for a long time, not going back to the motel until the pain stopped. My brother didn’t ask how I did, and of course, I didn’t dare tell him. He was packing to leave—still not on good terms with my stepmom. Now he had a good job in Chicago and didn’t go home for holidays. At the train station, he patted my head, just like always. “Get into Chicago, come be with me.”

I watched his train pull away, my heart heavy and hopeful at the same time. I promised myself I’d make it to Chicago, no matter what. I had to.

I cried and nodded hard. I lied to him, saying I probably messed up the last subject, probably couldn’t get into college, probably couldn’t escape that place.

I couldn’t meet his eyes, afraid he’d see through me. I wanted to protect him from my disappointment, even if it meant lying. He didn’t need my worries.

I didn’t stay home waiting for results—no matter how I did, I still had to find a way out. If I passed, I’d go to college, and working now would earn tuition. If not, I’d work in a factory. That’s just how it was.