Chapter 2: Stolen Futures, Stolen Letters

My brother didn’t argue. He was the scholarly type. He pulled me aside and quietly promised that as long as I wanted to study, he’d support me. Then he went to college out of state and only came home for a few days every six months. I envied him. So I studied even harder.

His words replayed in my mind every night as I did my homework by flashlight. I let myself believe I could have a future.

On the day of my high school entrance exam, Dad was busy with work and didn’t come; my stepmom, of course, didn’t either—she was probably hoping I’d fail. The entrance exam lasted two full days. After the last test, the school gate was packed with parents picking up their kids to celebrate. I bought myself a deli sandwich for the first time.

I remember the smell of fresh bread and cheap mustard, the weight of the sandwich in my hands. I sat on a stone post, swinging my feet, watching happy families walk by. For a moment, I almost felt normal.

I sat on a stone post at the school gate, took a bite, and my brother rushed over, out of breath. He smiled and patted my head. “Did you do well?”

His presence was like a sudden burst of sunlight. I grinned, feeling lighter than I had in weeks.

I was confident, but shrugged. “I don’t know if I’ll get to keep studying.”

He nudged me, his gold-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. “If you pass, you have to keep studying. Didn’t I say I’d support you? Don’t eat that sandwich, let me take you out for a real meal.”

I hesitated, clutching the sandwich, but his insistence made me laugh. It felt good to be wanted, even just for dinner.

His promise comforted my always-anxious heart. He took me out for steak—it was my first time eating steak. He cut it for me and bought me an expensive juice. On the way back, he told me, “Girls should study hard. It’s your only way out. Do you know why I went so far away for college? Only by getting far away can you really escape this place. I don’t even know what I’m doing it for—after all, Mom was good to me. But I still have to live the rest of my life for myself.”

I chewed slowly, savoring every bite, letting his words sink in. That night, for the first time, I let myself believe I could have a future.

I replayed his words in my heart countless times. He didn’t go home. Just caught the bus straight back to school. When we parted, he gave me a hundred bucks. Back then, a hundred dollars could support a college student for more than half a month. He told me again and again to hide the money and not let my stepmom find out. He said I was growing and needed it for nutrition.

I hid the bill in the lining of my pillow, checking every night to make sure it was still there. It felt like a secret pact, a tiny rebellion against the world.

I kept my promise and didn’t tell my stepmom that my brother had come home. It felt like salvation. Like my life had light again.

For days, I walked with a spring in my step, humming under my breath. 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 told me flat-out 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 grass bag. 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 made a huge scene at home, laying into my stepmom.

He banged on the kitchen table, voice shaking with rage. The neighbors heard. Gathered on the porch. Whispered 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?”

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

The shouting match went on for what felt like hours. 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 my fate.

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

But my brother refused to accept fate. He took me around for days, asked everyone he could, 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 working and making good money.

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

Away from home, my time at school was fulfilling and comfortable. Jamie was my best friend there. I was jealous sometimes—her family really loved her, her parents treated her well, always made her different kinds of packed lunches. 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 good to me, I’ll bring them to enjoy life, and 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. Jamie’s optimism was infectious. Her laughter brightened even the grayest days.

But at the start of our sophomore year, she stopped coming to school. I looked forward to seeing her every day until I got a letter from her. She said she was getting married.

I stared at the letter for a long time, rereading her careful handwriting. My heart sank. I refused 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 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 pounded in my chest.

I broke down crying. Jamie heard my voice and cried too. She pulled me into her room. We hugged. Sobbed together.

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.