Chapter 4: Standing Alone and Taking Back What's Mine

At the words "steal wages," everyone’s faces darkened.

A hush fell over the room. I could feel their outrage simmering just below the surface.

Their eyes screamed: You’re so ungrateful!

No one spoke, but their stares said it all—they thought I was the problem, not the theft.

My dad jabbed his finger at me, cursing,

He pointed so hard it looked like he might jab a hole right through me.

"Just for some wages, you put your uncle in the hospital for five stitches!"

He said it like the money was worthless, as if I should’ve let it go for the sake of peace.

"I told your uncle to do it. What, you got a problem with that?"

His voice was thunder, daring me to argue.

I laughed, incredulous. "Why wouldn’t I have a problem?"

My voice was bitter, but clear. I’d finally found the courage to stand up for myself.

My dad froze, clearly not expecting me to talk back.

He looked stunned, his anger flickering into surprise for a split second.

In my previous life, I’d never dared to disobey him or anyone else.

Every time he raised his voice, I’d back down, apologizing even when I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Even in this life, up to now, I’d been the same.

Old habits die hard, but something had finally snapped inside me.

So now he was like a provoked lion, ready to use violence to reassert his authority.

I saw the warning signs—the set of his jaw, the way he drew his hand back.

He raised his hand high.

The whole room held its breath, waiting for the blow.

I stared right back at him.

I met his gaze, unflinching, daring him to try.

Nowhere to run, so I just stood there.

I refused to show fear, not anymore.

Seeing my gaze, my dad’s hand hovered in the air, then after a long moment, he slammed it down.

He let it fall to his side, frustration etched deep into his face.

He turned to my aunt, "Mike, keep the hospital bill. I’ll bring you the money."

His tone was all business, already shifting the problem onto someone else.

My aunt glared at me fiercely.

She sniffed, eyes narrowed, clearly wishing she could take a swing at me herself.

"If it weren’t for your dad, I’d smack you into next week!"

Her words stung, but I was beyond caring.

"Big brother, forget the money—just keep an eye on this kid!"

She stormed out, muttering under her breath about ungrateful children.

...

After my aunt left, I got straight to the point with my dad and demanded my wages.

I squared my shoulders and spoke up, voice steady. I wasn’t going to let him dodge the issue.

I wanted the money I’d sweated for on the construction site.

Every blister, every sore muscle—I’d earned that cash, and I wasn’t about to let it go without a fight.

My dad flew into a rage, shouting, "What do you want!"

He stomped his foot, voice echoing down the hallway.

Faced with such shamelessness, I couldn’t help but laugh, full of mockery.

The sound was sharp, almost ugly. It was the first time I’d ever laughed at him, and I saw the shock register in his eyes.

"Isn’t the money I earned supposed to be mine?"

I spoke slowly, clearly, daring him to say otherwise.

My dad’s face turned red, veins bulging on his neck like earthworms.

He looked ready to explode, but I didn’t flinch.

"The money you earned? Haven’t you spent enough of mine since you were a kid?"

His voice dripped with resentment, as if every dollar he’d ever spent on me was a crime.

"Shouldn’t you pay all of that back first?"

The injustice of it all hit me like a punch. But I held my ground, refusing to back down.

For a moment, I actually paused.

His words hurt, but I knew the truth. I’d always been the last in line for everything in this house.

But within three seconds, my smile deepened—not from joy, but from bitterness and scorn.

I let the bitterness show, letting him see just how little I cared about his approval anymore.

In this family, I was always the one left out when it came to spending.

Birthdays, holidays, even back-to-school shopping—I was always the afterthought.

Forget about the Christmas gifts every year.

My brother got remote-control cars and new video games. I got socks, if I was lucky.

Take school, for example. Public school didn’t cost much, and the only big expense was school uniforms.

Every August, I watched my classmates try on crisp new shirts while I wore the same faded jeans year after year.

Whenever the school announced new uniforms, the whole class would get excited—except me, who felt nothing but anxiety.

I dreaded those announcements, knowing I’d have to beg just to look like everyone else.

At home, I’d carefully ask my parents to buy me one too, promising I’d get first place in my grade.

I’d make deals, offer chores, anything for a little dignity.

But they’d frown and say making money was hard, why buy a useless piece of clothing?

It was always the same speech: "We don’t waste money on things you don’t need."

I explained it was required by the school, everyone had to wear it.

But logic never worked on them. They just shrugged and went about their day.

I thought that would convince them, but instead, they bought a uniform for my brother.

He strutted around the living room in it, showing off, while I tried to pretend I didn’t care.

When my brother outgrew it, he’d toss it to me and say, "Finally got a uniform, happy?"

His words were always laced with mockery, and I’d have to swallow my pride and wear it anyway.

When I didn’t have one, classmates would just glance at me, laugh at me for being poor.

Some of them even gave me nicknames—"Hand-me-down Danny"—and made jokes behind my back. They called me ‘Goodwill Danny’ behind my back. I learned to keep my head down and hope the bell would ring faster.

But after a while, they lost interest and stopped laughing.

Even humiliation gets boring when it never changes.

If I wore my brother’s old, torn uniform, wouldn’t I be laughed at again?

I dreaded walking into school, feeling everyone’s eyes on me.

So, out of stubbornness, I said I wouldn’t wear it.

I tried to make a stand, but it didn’t matter.

My parents got angry, called me wasteful, and said if I didn’t want to wear it, why did I want it in the first place?

I was trapped—damned if I did, damned if I didn’t.

They said it was lucky they hadn’t bought me one then, or it would’ve been a waste of money.

They made me feel guilty for wanting the bare minimum.

In the end, I still wore it, because the school required it. I could only grit my teeth and wear my brother’s old, small, torn uniform.

Every button strained, every seam frayed, but I wore it anyway. There was no other choice.

Some rich classmates pointed at me and laughed, saying I must have picked my uniform out of the trash.

Their words stung, but I learned to keep my head down and focus on my work.

I said nothing, quietly enduring the humiliation, letting my dignity be trampled.

It became routine—another small injustice I learned to live with.

I thought when I moved up a grade, maybe my family would buy me one, but I still didn’t get it.

Year after year, the story never changed.

If I wanted to wear one, it had to be a hand-me-down.

No matter how old I got, the rules stayed the same.

Heh…

It was almost funny, if it wasn’t so sad. Sometimes I wondered if they’d notice if I just disappeared.

Now, hearing my dad’s righteous words, how could I not sneer?

His hypocrisy was so obvious, I almost pitied him.

I didn’t want to argue about old wounds, so I struggled to my feet and left the house, pretending I was going to the bathroom.

I grabbed my backpack and slipped out the back door, the screen slamming shut behind me. I could feel the weight of the house falling away as I stepped into the humid evening air.

I hitched a ride with someone from town to the county.

The guy who picked me up was a trucker with a thick Southern drawl, his cab filled with the smell of coffee and country music blaring on the radio. He didn’t ask many questions, just nodded when I told him I needed to get to the site.

If my dad wouldn’t give me my money, I’d go to the construction site myself.

I repeated it in my head like a mantra. This time, I was going to stand up for myself, no matter what it took.

You made the mess, you clean it up.

I was done letting them sweep my problems under the rug.

Anyway, I had to get my hard-earned money back.

It was the only way out—the first step toward something better.

A few hundred bucks isn’t much, but it’s enough to buy supplies for the SATs and pay for my trip to college.

Even a little money meant freedom. It meant hope.

As long as I can use the SATs as my springboard out of here, the sky’s the limit.

For the first time in my life, I felt a spark of possibility, like maybe—just maybe—I could build a new future for myself.