Chapter 2: Death, Rebirth, and the Race to Save Mom

Grandpa adored the boy and named him Christopher Walker. He doted on Christopher, calling him the ‘Walker heir’ at every holiday. Sometimes I’d hear them laughing together in the living room, their voices echoing down the hallway. I’d hide in my room, pretending not to care, but the ache never really left.

Leonard would parade Christopher around, showing him off to everyone, beaming with pride: "My son, Leonard Walker’s son, will have a bright future!" He’d slap Christopher on the back at family cookouts, introducing him to neighbors as his pride and joy. I’d stand off to the side, invisible, wishing I could just melt into the crowd. It was like I didn’t even exist.

The way he doted on Christopher made me both envious and jealous. I wanted to hate Christopher, but he was just a kid—lost, like me. Still, every time Leonard ruffled his hair or bragged about his grades, a little part of me shriveled up inside. I hated myself for feeling that way.

At the time, I felt like I could only rely on Leonard, so I had to make sure he didn’t hate me. I learned to read his moods, to tiptoe around his temper. I’d do extra chores, bring him coffee, anything to keep the peace. The fear of being tossed out was always there, a shadow at my heels.

I walked on eggshells at home every day, afraid he’d abandon me. Every floorboard creak had me flinching. I’d rehearse apologies in my head, just in case. Survival meant staying small, staying quiet, hoping I wouldn’t be noticed.

Fortunately, my stepmother didn’t make things hard for me. After marrying in, she also lived a tough life and became another target for Leonard’s temper and demands. Sometimes Diane would sneak me a cookie or whisper something nice when Leonard wasn’t looking. She was always tired, always wary, but she never took it out on me. In a house full of storms, she was a patch of calm.

In this family, only Christopher was ever favored by Leonard. He got the best seat at the table, the new sneakers, the biggest slice of cake. I learned not to ask for seconds, not to expect anything more. That’s just how it was.

When I turned eighteen, Leonard came home drunk and suddenly called me over. He staggered into the living room, reeking of whiskey, and flopped onto the couch. The TV flickered in the background as he waved me over, a sloppy grin twisting his face.

He sat on the couch, burping, and said: "Maddie from down the road went out to work and support her family after middle school. I’ve spent so much money raising you—don’t you think it’s time to pay me back? Go work at the factory and give your room to Chris."

His words hit like a slap. I could barely process what he was saying. I’d always known he saw me as a burden, but hearing it out loud was something else entirely. It stung, deep.

Maddie was my classmate from junior high. She worked in a factory because she didn’t get into high school. I used to see her on the bus, her uniform smudged with grease, hair pulled back in a tired ponytail. She’d give me a small wave, eyes heavy but kind. I always wondered if she’d chosen that life or just settled for it.

But I was different. I was in my last year of high school, always one of the top students in mock exams. My teachers would call me a ‘model student’—the one with a future. I clung to that hope like a lifeline, certain I could claw my way out.

My mother had always hoped I’d study hard, get into a good college, and change my fate. Her dream was my dream. I kept her old note in my wallet—"You’re meant for more, Emily. Never forget that." It was the push I needed on nights when I wanted to give up.

That was her wish, and it was my motivation too. Every late night, every extra assignment, I did for her. I wanted to make her proud, wherever she was. I owed her that much.

I knew Leonard only cared about money, so I carefully said: "My homeroom teacher says my grades are good enough for college. If I work hard, I can even get a scholarship. Once I’m in college, I’ll work part-time and give you all the money. After I graduate, I’ll be able to earn even more…" I held my breath, hoping he’d buy it. Sometimes, talking to Leonard felt like tiptoeing across a minefield—you never knew what would set him off.

Leonard thought for a while and made me write a promise, swearing to send him money every month in the future. He made me grab a pen and scrawl out a note, right there at the kitchen table. He folded it up, tucked it in his wallet, and grinned like he’d just won the lottery.

Satisfied, he passed out on the couch clutching the note. I watched him snore, the promise crumpled in his fist. I wanted to rip it up, but fear kept me rooted to the spot. I hated how small I felt.

That night, I thought over and over—if I wanted to get away from this tyrant, my only way out was to get into a college far away. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, plotting my escape. College wasn’t just a dream—it was survival. I needed distance, a fresh start, a place where Leonard couldn’t reach me.

So I pushed myself even harder and got into a state teachers’ college in another city, just as I’d hoped, with a scholarship. The acceptance letter felt like a golden ticket. I cried when I opened it, clutching the envelope like it was armor. For the first time, I felt hope. I was going to make it out.

To make sure I could finish school and keep Leonard from causing trouble, I worked as a tutor and sent him money every month. Every paycheck, I’d set aside cash for Leonard, mailing it in battered envelopes. It was never enough, but it kept him off my back. I told myself it was only temporary. Someday I’d be free.

After graduating, I landed a good teaching job. I remember the day I signed my contract—my hands shook, but my heart soared. I could finally imagine a life that was mine, not just a reaction to his demands. I’d made it—almost.

I thought I could finally break free. I rented my own place and stopped sending Leonard money. I wanted to live for myself. I bought a cheap couch, painted the walls yellow, and danced around the living room. For the first time, I felt like I belonged somewhere. The silence was sweet, not heavy.

But I didn’t expect that as soon as I stopped, Leonard showed up with the promise. He banged on my door at midnight, waving the crumpled note in my face. My heart pounded as he pushed past me, eyes wild with anger and desperation.

He threatened me viciously: "I owe gambling debts and need money to make a comeback. If you don’t pay up, I’ll send debt collectors after you! I have your promise!" His words were sharp, like broken glass. I felt trapped all over again, the walls closing in. He didn’t care about my job, my life—just the money.

I’d been manipulated by him for so long that, even though I wanted to resist, I couldn’t help but give in. My hands shook as I wrote another check. Old habits die hard, especially when they’re carved into you by fear. I told myself it was the last time, but I didn’t believe it.

This went on until I was twenty-seven. Two years of working, paying, and hoping for peace. My friends thought I was just frugal, but really, I was buying my own safety. It was exhausting, never-ending.

That year, I went home to visit my mother’s grave and happened to run into one of her old friends. The cemetery was quiet, the air heavy with the scent of cut grass. I was placing fresh flowers when Aunt Patty showed up, her arms full of lilies. I hadn’t seen her in years.

When Aunt Patty heard how hard my life was, she sighed and told me—the real reason my mother died was because Leonard made her so angry. She put a hand on my shoulder, her eyes shining with tears. “Honey, you need to know the truth. Your mother didn’t just die—she was broken by Leonard’s lies.”

"That day, your mother and I were out shopping when we ran into your dad with a pregnant woman. Your mom went over to confront him, he acted like a fool, and your mom got so angry she had a heart attack right there." The words hit me like a freight train. I’d always blamed myself, but now the truth burned through the fog of guilt. Leonard had killed her with his betrayal.

My mother died from being angered by Leonard? I felt the ground tilt beneath me. My knees buckled, and Aunt Patty caught me before I fell. The world suddenly made a cruel kind of sense. Everything I’d believed was a lie.

He’d never mentioned this, only saying my mother died from exhaustion taking care of me! All those years he’d let me believe I was the reason. The anger inside me boiled over, hot and bitter. I wanted to scream, to tear something apart. Instead, I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms. I promised myself I’d never let Leonard hurt me again.

I made up my mind—I would cut all ties with that monster of a father! I went home, packed a suitcase, and bought a bus ticket to a city where he’d never find me. I left no forwarding address, no note—just silence.

I quit my job and moved to a distant city, never contacting Leonard again. I changed my phone number, deleted old emails, and started over. The freedom tasted strange at first—like breathing after being underwater for too long. I kept looking over my shoulder, waiting for the past to catch up.

But I still couldn’t escape. Two years later, I ran into my younger brother, Christopher, on the street. I was leaving a coffee shop, arms full of groceries, when I saw him swaggering down the sidewalk. He looked older, cockier—a spitting image of Leonard at that age. My heart stuttered in my chest.

He swaggered up, grabbed my arm with a grin: "Hey, isn’t this my good sister? So you were hiding here? What a coincidence! Looks like you’re doing well, huh? Did you forget you have a little brother? Now that you’ve got money, shouldn’t you spend some on your brother?" His tone was playful, but his grip was tight. I felt my blood run cold. The past had found me, and it wore my brother’s face.

In Christopher’s shameless smile, I saw the shadow of Leonard. His eyes glittered with the same greedy light. For a moment, I wanted to believe he was different, but the resemblance was too strong. I felt sick.

I turned to leave, but he grabbed my commuter bag. He yanked it hard, nearly pulling me off balance. People on the sidewalk glanced over, but no one intervened. I felt anger flare up, hot and sudden. Enough was enough.

Thinking of all the crap I’d suffered over the years, I snapped: "Who’s your sister? Get lost!" The words flew out before I could stop them. For the first time, I didn’t care about keeping the peace.

I yanked my bag free and smacked it onto his head. The sound echoed down the block. He staggered back, clutching his forehead, eyes wide with shock. I felt a surge of satisfaction, almost giddy.

He touched the cut on his forehead, saw it was bleeding, and cursed: "Damn, you money drain, you actually dare hit me!" Blood trickled down his temple, staining his collar. I felt a twisted sense of satisfaction watching him curse and sputter. Served him right.

I shoved him to the ground with all my strength and hurried away. My heart pounded as I sprinted down the block. For the first time in years, I felt powerful—like maybe I could fight back after all.

Thinking of his embarrassed face, I felt a rare sense of satisfaction. I ducked into a corner store, laughing under my breath. Maybe I’d finally found a way to stand up for myself.

But I forgot about Leonard lurking behind him. Old habits die hard. I should have known trouble was never far behind when it came to Leonard. There’s always another shoe waiting to drop.

A few days later, one morning as I was about to leave for work, Leonard burst in with a baseball bat. The door banged open, the frame splintering. He looked wild—eyes bloodshot, hair sticking up, the bat clutched in his fists. My stomach dropped. My mind screamed: not again.