Chapter 2
The whole drama finally wrapped up when Grace walked out the door.
She sternly warned, no more violence, or she'd call the police.
No way could my mom just ditch me, either. Grace would be dropping by on schedule to check up on me.
Left with no other option, my mom had to let me stay.
I ended up staying in a small storage room. It wasn't much, but at least there was a window where I could see outside.
A cool breeze swept through, making the wind chimes on the windowsill jingle. The air carried that clean, rain-washed smell.
I was just glad I didn't have to fall asleep to the reek of pig manure anymore.
Suddenly, the door opened just a sliver, letting the living room light spill in.
Joanna sat down beside me, carrying a first-aid kit.
Her deeply lined face showed no emotion at all as she treated the wound on my arm with a cold, detached touch.
She said, "Back then, Serena had just gotten into her dream college, her favorite major, nursing. All she ever wanted was to become a doctor, to heal and help people. But your dad ruined everything.
"My wonderful, gentle girl, and she ended up being hurt by someone like your father.
"When your mom gave birth to you, your dad kept tormenting her, even when she was supposed to be recovering. Her health was wrecked. By the time we finally found her, she was so broken that I could barely recognize her.
"She should've been in a classroom, wearing a clean dress, learning and living her dreams. Instead, she was forced to carry you and spent ten months trapped in that place. Just imagine how hopeless she must've felt.
"Ten years. A whole decade, and she still can't move on.
"How could she ever move on from that?"
As soon as Joanna finished speaking, she pressed down even harder, and the scab that had just started to form split open all over again.
Blood dripped onto the back of her wrinkled hand. Her fingers shook a little, but her face didn't change at all.
It hurt like hell, but I couldn't let myself make a sound.
No one loved me.
No one ever wanted me to have a good life, but I just kept dragging myself along, stubbornly surviving all the way to ten.
I guessed I really should just die.
If I died, my mom's life would finally be clean.
Once I made that secret choice, the weight that'd been crushing my chest finally started to lift.
To get through the social services checkup, my mom sent me off to a nearby school.
That was where I met Sophie Evans, a pretty classmate who was always ready to help others.
She'd grown up in the city, so I knew she'd seen a lot more of the world than I had.
During recess, I leaned in close and whispered to her, "I have a friend who wants to die. Is there any way she can pass without too much pain? Preferably, in a way that matters?"
Her jaw dropped, and she stared at me as if I'd just said something crazy.
"Wait, are you talking about yourself?" Sophie asked.
I felt a wave of embarrassment and couldn't meet her eyes, nervously fidgeting with the hem of my shirt.
"Just tell me if there's any way to do it," I said.
Sophie looked me up and down with those big, round eyes, finally zeroing in on the spot where I'd tried to hide my injury.
Sophie said, "Is it because your parents hit you all the time? Is that why you want to end it all?
"Please, don't do anything stupid. If you're being abused, you can call the cops. They'll help you out and make sure the adults who hurt you end up in jail."
I could tell she was really mad.
My chest tightened, like something was stuck in my throat.
How was I supposed to tell her that I was the daughter of a rapist, and every time my mom looked at me, she was forced to relive that shameful chapter in her life?
I couldn't even find a reason to keep going.
It felt like everyone wanted me gone.
I honestly couldn't take it anymore.
But I couldn't say any of this out loud; it'd only make things worse for my mom, dragging her into even more mess.
So I pretended it didn't matter, forcing myself to sound casual.
"No. I can't call the police. She's my mom. She's just dealing with stuff right now. That's why she acts this way. I think, deep down, she still loves me," I said.
Sophie let out a long sigh, saying, "Parents who truly love their kids would never hurt them. Real love means always feeling like you're not giving enough, always worried you're falling short, not treating you like this."
My heart grew colder with every word.
For years, I'd convinced myself that even though my dad hit me, he still loved me.
But now someone was telling me that real love meant parents could never bring themselves to hurt their child.
It turned out my parents were the same; neither of them had ever loved me.
Before I could even respond, my homeroom teacher, Rachel Newton, called out from behind me.
"Emily, I need to stop by your house after class for a home visit," Rachel said.
Rachel told my mom about my suicidal thoughts and strongly suggested she take me to see a therapist ASAP.
After Rachel left, the door slammed shut behind her.
I sat on the couch, staring at the floor, too scared to look at her, only able to hear her cold voice.
"So you're depressed, huh? If you really wanna die, why don't you just do it already?" my mom snapped.
I wanted to explain, but the words got stuck in my throat. In the end, I asked tentatively, my voice trembling, "If, I mean, if I really died, what would you do?
"Would you be sad? Would you cry for me?"