Chapter 4: Breaking Chains, Burning Bridges

But after school, life was just as miserable as Poe’s narrator. I didn’t have a dorm yet, so I had to go home. The six-hundred-square-foot apartment in the old district was all my dad left us. The master bedroom went to Evan, the second to my grandma, and I slept in a makeshift “bedroom” in the living room.

The couch creaked beneath me, the air stale and heavy. I stared at the ceiling, counting cracks instead of sheep.

At ten, the only sound was a sweet female voice: "Double kill."

The glow of Evan’s computer spilled down the hall, his laughter sharp and grating.

After a quick shower, before I could get to my little space, Evan came out. With his straw-like yellow hair, wheezing after two steps, greasy face—he didn’t look like family at all. His eyes lingered where they shouldn’t. "Venmo me $75. I want to buy a skin."

His voice was whiny, demanding. I felt my stomach twist.

At the word "skin," he actually swallowed. "Sis, your skin isn’t bad either." His fat hand reached out.

Disgust crawled up my spine. I jerked away, heart pounding.

"Smack—"

I slapped his hand away. "Are you crazy? Touch me again and I’ll break your hand!"

My voice shook with fury. I meant every word.

One decision not to drop out had set off a butterfly effect.

I realized, in that moment, that standing up for myself had consequences—but I was ready for them.

"Why are you hiding? We’re not even related!" He tried to cover my mouth.

His breath was sour, his grip sweaty and weak. I twisted away, adrenaline surging.

"Bastard!"

I didn’t expect help from grandma. I grabbed a lamp and smashed it over his head. With a crash, the weakling collapsed, struggling but unable to get up.

The lamp shattered, glass spraying across the floor. Evan whimpered, clutching his head.

His cries finally brought grandma. "Why’d you hit your brother?" She didn’t care what happened, just tried to grab me. I blocked her and called the police.

Her voice was shrill, but I ignored it. My hands shook as I dialed 911.

“Hi, 911? I’d like to report an attempted sexual assault. I don’t even know this person.”

My voice was calm, almost detached. I’d practiced this call in my head a thousand times.

Hearing me call the police, grandma panicked, but couldn’t reach the phone and collapsed on the floor. “What did I do to deserve this? You want your brother arrested—how can I live? How can I face your father in the afterlife?”

Her wailing was background noise. I kept my focus on the dispatcher’s voice.

Evan tried to grab my phone, but I dodged and ran outside, waiting for the police car.

The night air was cool, sharp. I hugged myself, waiting for the flashing lights.

Two officers accompanied me back upstairs. Evan was groaning, playing the victim.

He clutched his head, moaning dramatically. The officers exchanged a look.

"Is this the guy?"

"Yes, I’m really scared. I don’t even know him." I did my best to act the part.

My voice shook, but I made sure it sounded true.

"What do you mean, don’t know him? He’s your brother!" Grandma rushed over. "Officers, they’re siblings, it’s all a misunderstanding!"

She tried to sound reasonable, but the officers weren’t buying it.

"I’m an only child, always at school, barely home. I don’t know this person." I hid behind the officers, crying.

I let the tears come, real and raw. It wasn’t all an act.

"How can you say that? He’s been here six months!" Dad had just died when Evan was sent over by his parents.

Her voice cracked, but I didn’t care. I was done playing along.

“Do you have any paperwork?” one officer asked. “Without legal documents, it doesn’t count.”

Their indifference was almost a relief. For once, the system was on my side.

"He’s still a relative, just a kid, what does he know?" Grandma tried to cover.

But his size defied any definition of "kid."

The officers exchanged a glance, unimpressed.

I handed over a recording from my old phone. Evan shut up, and grandma finally caved, her voice bitter. “Maya, he’s your brother, you can’t have him arrested. He’s going to get a government job!”

Her voice was desperate, but I could see the fear in her eyes. She knew the game was up.

You need a college degree for that—Evan? He’d dropped out of trade school.

The irony was almost funny, if it weren’t so sad.

I let her wail. When Evan was taken away, grandma realized I was done listening. She grabbed my clothes. "Fine! Don’t live here, this is your brother’s house! Get as far away as you can! Don’t think you’ll get a cent from the Brooks family!" With that, she slammed the door on me.

Her words echoed down the hallway. I stood there, bag in hand, suddenly free and utterly alone.

Carrying a simple bag, I left the "home" I’d lived in for sixteen years.

The night was cool, the streetlights humming. I took a deep breath, letting the fear and relief wash over me.

With nowhere to go, I spent the night at a 24-hour Denny’s. Last time, after I ran away, I never went back. Evan inherited grandma’s estate, but this time, I wasn’t letting that creep win. The apartment was in my dad’s name—legally, I should inherit half. But with finals looming, I had to wait until after the exams.

The smell of burnt coffee and fried eggs was oddly comforting. I nursed a cup of tea, watching the sky lighten outside.

I sighed, opened Ben’s review materials, and started studying in the dawn light at 5 a.m. At 6:30, for the first time, I went straight to morning class instead of work.

My eyelids were heavy, but my mind was sharp. I felt a strange sense of peace—like I was finally moving forward.

Not many people were there, but Nathaniel was. Unlike Ben, Nathaniel relied on school scholarships to study. With no other skills, he had to work himself to the bone to keep his fragile chance alive. Even when he got his PhD and refused to marry me, I admired his drive.

He sat hunched over his notebook, brow furrowed in concentration. I almost felt sorry for him—almost.

"Nathan, it’s been nine years. You got your PhD, we’re stable now…" I’d waited for this moment a long time. Nathaniel was reserved, so I proposed: "I hope we can spend our lives together."

The memory was bittersweet. I remembered the hope in my voice, the fear in his eyes.

"Maya, I need to think about it."

He thought about it for three years, graduated, and only when I got pregnant and forced the issue did we marry. But I miscarried from overwork, and he wanted a divorce.

The pain of that loss still echoed in my bones. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to focus on the present.

"You said you’d be with me forever! Why did you change?" I was desperate, hysterical. Our home was split in two, never crossing the line. Professor Cole could chat with the lunch ladies but never spoke to me. Everyone knew Professor Cole was stuck with a small-town wife, the woman who smashed dishes and forced the professor to pay her back.

The shame and anger twisted together, leaving a scar I carried even now.

Nathaniel was cold: "I can pay you back for all the money you spent, if you’ll divorce me."

His voice was flat, businesslike. I wanted to scream, but the words stuck in my throat.

"Pay me back? Why didn’t you say that when you needed to repeat a year, or needed tuition, or needed prep class fees? Now you’ve made it, and you just walk away? Am I supposed to end up with nothing?"

The injustice burned. I remembered every dollar, every sacrifice.

At thirty, I stormed out and got hit by a car. Some things are better left unsaid. Just seeing Nathaniel now is enough to make me sick.

The memory was a bruise that never quite faded. I shook it off, focusing on the here and now.

He came over slowly. "About yesterday’s bet, I’ll explain to Mr. Grant for you." He looked at the book in my hand. "That’s Ben’s, right? Don’t get too close to him—we’re not the same as him."

His words dripped with old insecurities. I stared him down, unafraid.

"What do you mean, not the same? Poor people aren’t automatically noble." I poked at his sore spot. "I haven’t even called you out for yesterday yet!"

I watched him squirm. The old Maya would’ve let it slide, but not anymore.

"I… I had no choice!" Nathaniel was pale, his excuses weak.

He looked like he wanted to disappear. I almost pitied him, but not quite.

"Hurting others for your own gain is your motto. You and I are the ones who don’t belong together!"

I let the words hang between us, final and sharp.

He wanted to say more, but people started coming in.

The spell broke. He slunk away, defeated.

"That’s my seat." Ben arrived early. One simple statement, and Nathaniel fled, as if deeply humiliated.

Ben’s presence was like a shield. I felt a quiet gratitude.

After he sat down, I slid my finished exercises over to Ben.

"Thanks."

He let his eyes drift shut, then suddenly asked, “Thanks for this, or for earlier?”

His voice was soft, almost shy. I smiled, letting the silence answer for me.

I knew he meant Nathaniel, but I didn’t answer.

Sometimes, not saying things is its own kind of answer.