Chapter 3: The Girl Who Never Belonged

The lights were still on at the Whitman house.

From outside, you could see the soft glow through the kitchen window, the gentle hum of conversation floating down the block. The American flag out front waved in the drizzle, a reminder of normalcy I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Mrs. Whitman and several friends were sitting in the living room sipping tea.

Their laughter drifted into the hallway, mixed with the clink of fine china and the faint smell of lemon bars cooling on the counter. The scene was straight out of a suburban magazine—if you ignored the undercurrent of gossip.

I stood at the door, changing out of my wet sneakers, the conversation inside clearly audible.

I shook the rain from my jacket and tried not to slip on the hardwood. My damp socks clung to the welcome mat as I listened, invisible on the other side of the foyer.

"Natalie, are you really going to let Derek marry that little housekeeper's girl?"

The voice dripped with condescension. I recognized it—Mrs. Carmichael, Mrs. Whitman’s oldest friend, the queen of thinly veiled barbs at every holiday gathering.

"If you ask me, you're just too superstitious."

"Kids get sick easily anyway. Look at Derek now—hasn't he grown up just fine?"

Another woman chimed in, her voice high and nasal. I pictured her fussing with her pearls, the same way she did at last year’s Thanksgiving dinner.

The speaker was Mrs. Whitman's best friend. Ever since I got engaged to Derek, she had disliked me in every possible way.

She’d once told me to my face that I “lacked polish,” that I was “sweet, but rough around the edges.” It stung, even though I tried to laugh it off.

She'd said things like this not just behind my back, but right to my face as well.

She never whispered—always loud enough for everyone to hear, especially me.

Mrs. Whitman sighed:

"Lillian has had a hard time too."

Her voice was gentle, but tired, as if she was already half-defeated by the argument.

"She takes good care of Derek."

"When Derek gets married, I'll make it up to her."

That last sentence stung more than the rest. Like my years here were a debt owed, not a choice made.

Tears stung my eyes.

I pressed my fists to my sides, breathing shallowly, blinking hard so I wouldn’t walk in with red, swollen eyes. I’d learned long ago that tears only made them gossip more.

I bit my lower lip hard, suddenly remembering how Mrs. Whitman begged me not to leave all those years ago.

The memory was vivid: her hands gripping mine, her voice trembling. She’d promised that everything would be different, that Derek just needed time. I’d believed her.

Derek had always been sickly since he was a child. When he was fourteen, he fell seriously ill.

I remembered sitting by his bed, counting out medicine, listening to the distant hum of the TV in the next room. The Whitmans’ house always smelled like bleach and old books back then.

Mrs. Whitman, desperate, sought help everywhere and finally invited a famous pastor.

She’d called in every favor, every old friend, every bit of faith she could muster. The pastor’s voice was deep and reassuring—a comforting presence in the storm.

After talking with us, the pastor picked me.

He said I had a rare "lucky influence," and as long as I got engaged to Derek, his health would improve.

Looking back, it sounded like something out of a bad TV drama—like my whole future was decided by a stranger’s superstition.

And so, I—a housekeeper's orphan adopted by the Whitmans—suddenly became Derek's fiancée.

One day, I was polishing silver in the dining room; the next, I was at the center of a story I never wrote for myself. Neighbors looked at me differently after that—some with envy, some with suspicion.

Derek had always been cold to me.

He’d barely acknowledge me in the halls. If I sat too close at dinner, he’d shift away, his fork scraping against his plate just a little too loudly.

When I greeted him, he pretended not to see me.

I’d wave, say his name, try to catch his eye. Sometimes I wondered if I was just a shadow to him.

When I secretly glanced at him, he would frown and turn away.

I learned to study him from a distance—memorizing the way he tucked his hair behind his ear, how his lips would twitch when he was annoyed.

Once, he had to leave early for something, but I didn't know and didn't dare go to his class to find him, so I waited at the school gate.

It was autumn, the air crisp, and I sat on the stone steps, clutching my bag. The campus emptied out, the streetlights flickered on, and still I waited.

I waited and waited, until it was dark and the school was empty. Only then did I walk back to the Whitman house, crying.

The walk home was long and cold. I wiped my tears with the back of my hand, the crunch of leaves under my shoes the only sound for blocks.

That night, I thought for a long time and finally gathered the courage to mention breaking off the engagement to Mrs. Whitman.

I practiced what I’d say in the mirror, rehearsing every word, my hands shaking the whole time.

But Mrs. Whitman cried and begged me not to be angry at Derek.

She sat on the edge of my bed, her mascara running, promising that things would get better. I’d never seen her so desperate.

She even listed many things to prove that Derek liked me too.

She told me stories from his childhood, insisted that he was shy, misunderstood, that he needed someone like me.

Some of her words I still remember to this day:

"Lillian, Derek is a kid who doesn't know how to express his feelings."

I could hear the hope in her voice, clinging to the idea that silence was just another form of affection.

"He doesn't say it, but deep down, he can't do without you."

She squeezed my hand, her eyes shining with conviction. I almost believed her.

"If he didn't like you, why would he go to school with you every day?"

She pointed out every routine, every small overlap in our lives, as if proximity alone could build a bridge.

"Why doesn't he hang out with other girls?"

I knew the truth—Derek just didn’t care for anyone. But I let myself believe, for her sake.

"And why doesn't he object to this engagement?"

That was the clincher, the line she always came back to, as if his lack of protest was proof enough.

Because of Mrs. Whitman's words, I endured year after year under Derek's cold gaze.

Each season changed, but his distance never did. I learned to cook his favorite meals, to fold his shirts just so. But he never noticed.

Mrs. Whitman treated me better and better. Sometimes, I even secretly wished she were my mother.

She’d leave little notes on my pillow, buy me new books, let me stay up late watching TV with her. For a while, I felt wanted, if not truly loved.

But illusions are destined to be shattered.

No matter how much you wish for it, you can’t build a family on hope alone. The cracks were always there, waiting for the right moment to split wide open.

While I tried so hard to learn how to be a good wife and daughter,

they had already unilaterally sentenced me to exile.

The real decisions were made without me, in rooms I never entered, by people who never asked what I wanted.

Even though I'd lived in this house for ten years, at this moment, I didn't know if I should go in.

I lingered in the foyer, listening to the laughter and clatter from the living room, my suitcase still upstairs. I felt like a guest again, not family.

On the dark street, I called my college roommate Tanya.

I stepped onto the porch, the cool air clearing my head. My fingers trembled as I dialed her number.

"Tanya, does your offer to work in Chicago still stand?"

My voice was quiet but steady, like I’d already made the decision. The city lights blinked in the distance, and for the first time in a long time, I felt the tiniest flicker of hope.