Chapter 6: The Price of Freedom

My dad brought my stepmom to my school. I stood at the bus stop across from campus all morning, watching them stop people, maybe asking if anyone knew me. Why were they looking for me? Just for money.

My heart pounded as I watched them from a distance, dread coiling in my stomach. I knew this wouldn’t end well.

I was afraid they’d cause a scene with my teachers, so I went to meet them. I took them to a diner near school—Dad and my stepmom ordered over $40 worth of food, lots of meat. I didn’t eat or say a word.

I stared at the cracked Formica table, counting the seconds until I could leave.

My stepmom couldn’t stand it: “Mariah, you haven’t come home or called since starting college.”

“Is there something you want?”

Dad ordered more food. “Do you have money? Your brother got into trouble—beat someone up. They want compensation. We’ve scraped together everything, but we’re still short three grand.”

I looked at them coldly. “How much is the compensation?”

“Thirty grand.”

I said, word by word, “If you can’t pay, let him go to jail. I have no money.”

My stepmom grabbed my hand. “Mariah, we know you’re working—help your brother. After all, you’re related by blood.”

When I didn’t respond, she threatened, “Believe it or not, I’ll make a scene with your teachers—let them see how ungrateful you are!”

Her voice was shrill, but I didn’t flinch. I’d learned how to survive people like her.

I felt sorry for my brother—I even asked my stepmom why she didn’t ask him for money. She mumbled that he needed to live too. Figures. I was just the girl, after all.

I bit back a laugh, the irony too much to bear. I’d always been good enough to take from, but never good enough to matter.

In the end, I gave them the money—the $700 I had left after buying the coat. But I made them sign an agreement—if they came again, I’d make a scene at school and see who was in the right.

I wrote the agreement myself, making them sign and date it. My hands shook, but my voice was steady. I was done being their victim.

“She helps her brother, but makes us sign a paper—so ungrateful.”

“If you’re like this now, who’s going to take care of us when we’re old?”

“Having a daughter is just a burden. We worked so hard to send her to college, but she doesn’t give us anything back.”

Their words rolled off me like rain on a windshield. I was already gone, even if they didn’t know it yet.

But I didn’t care. I was already twenty-one—I wouldn’t be manipulated anymore.

I walked out of that diner into the sunlight, lighter than I’d felt in years. I was free.

Fortunately, my livestreaming career really took off. At my best, I could sell over $15,000 in one night. I became an independent host, took lots of ads, and started making good money—not only could I eat well, but I could save, too. I finally felt like I was really living.

I treated myself to a real meal, bought new shoes, even splurged on a haircut. For the first time, I looked in the mirror and saw someone worth rooting for.

Of course, I only told my brother about these things. He was happy for me—he even gave me a gold bracelet, saying now that I was successful, I should wear gold and silver so I’d always remember to be proud of myself.

He slipped the bracelet onto my wrist, grinning like a proud parent. I promised I’d never take it off.

I blocked my dad and stepmom, just like my brother did—truly saying goodbye to that backward, dark town. That town, that small county, brought me too much pain. I’m not a forgiving person—I can’t forgive the way they made me feel small.

Sometimes, I’d drive past Maple Heights, windows rolled up, music blasting, refusing to look back. The past was behind me, and that’s where it would stay.

My brother bought a house in Chicago, in the suburbs—a thirty-five-year mortgage. He asked many times if I wanted to live in Chicago with him. I agreed, but we didn’t live together—I rented next door so we could look out for each other. My brother still occasionally contacted my stepmom—I didn’t care, but I knew they weren’t doing well. My younger brother never liked school—he dropped out of high school, got into fights, surfed the web all day, and got in trouble with the police more than once. My stepmom was furious. My dad’s garage was losing money for a long time.

I heard the stories secondhand, but they felt distant, like news from another life. I’d moved on.

But that was none of my business. Every month, I gave my brother a hundred bucks to send to them—as a weird kind of thank-you for not selling me off like Jamie. My brother asked if I had anything I wanted to do. I thought for a long time, then said I wanted to go to Chicago. He asked why—I stammered and couldn’t say.

I shrugged, mumbling something about new beginnings. He just smiled, knowing me better than I knew myself.

Getting a U.S. visa was hard—I waited two months, and when it finally came through, I got it the next day, then flew to Chicago.

I packed my bags, heart pounding with anticipation. The city skyline welcomed me like an old friend.

I stayed in Chicago for a long time, but I was a coward—I didn’t even dare send Sean a message. Every day, I went to the University of Chicago, sat on a bench by the lake all day, always wondering if Sean had ever sat here in the spring, too.

I watched students laugh and couples stroll by, imagining Sean among them. I wondered if he ever thought of me, if he missed the girl who’d run away.

He’d lived it. I could only wish.

I let the breeze tangle my hair, wishing I could be brave enough to reach out.

I finally called him. When I heard his voice, I almost dropped my phone.

“Finally willing to contact me?”

His voice was deeper, steadier than I remembered. My heart skipped a beat.

The wind in Chicago was so cold, it made my eyes red. “I’m in Chicago.”

He sounded cold. “I’m back in the States. Did you come to find me?”