Chapter 4

After living there for two weeks, I noticed a lot of things.

My sister's name was Serena Sinclair. She attended the most prestigious private prep school in the city. Her grades were average, but my mother bragged about her to everyone she met.

Her bedroom was three times the size of mine, complete with a study desk, a massive closet, and shelves overflowing with books and designer plush toys.

There was no desk in my room. My mother told me to just make do for now and that we’d figure something out later.

Every day when Serena came home from school, my mother would ask her what she wanted to eat. If Serena wanted takeout, my mother ordered it. If Serena wanted a specific dessert, my mother baked it. If Serena had no appetite, my mother would gently coax her to eat.

Once, Serena caught a fever. My mother was frantic, driving her to the emergency room in the middle of the night and staying awake until dawn.

When they returned the next morning, my mother's eyes were red with exhaustion, yet she still smiled warmly, asking Serena if she wanted some homemade soup.

It made me think of when Grandma was sick.

When I called, my mother said she was too busy.

When I told her Grandma was coughing blood, she just said she would mail money.

And by the time the money arrived, the worst had already passed.

As I sat in my dark room, staring at the gray brick wall outside, the truth finally clicked in my mind.

She was never too busy.

She just didn't care.

In the eight years I lived in that country town, my mother visited exactly twice.

Once for Christmas, and once when Grandma was sick. Both times, she stayed for barely half a day before rushing off, claiming she had too many things to handle in the city.

I actually believed her. I thought she was truly overwhelmed.

Yet she had all the time in the world to watch TV with Serena, to cook her favorite meals, and to stay up all night at the hospital for a simple fever.

She was only busy when it came to me.

At dinner that night, my mother served baked salmon. Since Serena loved salmon, my mother plated the best fillets for her, murmuring about how healthy it was.

I took a small piece of the tail end and ate quietly.

Serena suddenly spoke up.

"Mom, how long is she going to stay here?"

My fork froze mid-air.

My mother also paused.

"What are you talking about? She's your sister."

Serena rolled her eyes and didn't say another word.

I kept my head down, chewing my food slowly.

The fish was dry and tasteless.

But I didn't say a word.

When the school semester was about to start, my mother handed me an enrollment brochure for a local vocational school.

"Your academic foundation is weak," she said smoothly. "Even if you go to a regular high school, you won't get into a decent university. It's better to learn a practical trade so you can start working early."

I looked at the paper.

Was my academic foundation weak?

In our town, I was always at the top of my class. Granted, the curriculum in the city was different, and I had some catching up to do. But she had made this decision after only two weeks. How did she know I couldn't get into a good college?

I didn't ask.

There was no point.

To get Serena into her elite private school, my mother had paid a twenty-thousand-dollar donation, claiming it was an investment in her daughter's future.

But for me?

The trade school was free, and it would get me out of her house and into a job faster.

I sat in my dark room all night.

The next morning, I packed my bag and walked to the address Marcus Miller had given me.

Marcus had stopped coming to our town a year ago to open his own wholesale herb and spice warehouse in the city. Before he left, he had written down his address and told me, *Patience, if you ever need a place to go, come find me.*

When I found his shop, he was busy sorting dried herbs. He froze when he saw me standing there, then a warm smile spread across his face.

"Look at you! You've grown so tall, kid."

"Marcus," I said quietly, "I want to work."

He paused, looking at my small bag. "What happened?"

"I need to earn my own living."

He stared at me for a long time, then nodded without asking further questions.

"Alright. I need an assistant anyway. You can stay in the back room. I'll cover your food and rent, and pay you eight hundred dollars a month."

"Thank you," I said.

That evening, I sent a text message to my mother: *I'm moving into the trade school dorms. Don't worry about me.*

She replied with a brief: *Okay. Keep in touch.*

I unpacked my things in the tiny back room of Marcus's warehouse, taping Grandma’s photo and that old, melted candy wrapper to the wall.

As I closed the door, I felt a weight lift from my chest.

I was finally free of that cold, gray wall.

***

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