Chapter 4
University life unfolded before me like a fresh, blank canvas.
Metropolis was massive, a sprawling urban jungle.
Towering skyscrapers and endless streams of traffic defined the horizon.
I was just a speck of dust swallowed by this roaring ocean of a city.
But I didn't have the luxury of feeling lost.
On day one, I drew up a rigid, uncompromising schedule.
Lectures, the library, and part-time shifts.
Those three pillars became the entirety of my existence.
My roommates thought I was running myself into the ground.
They went shopping, saw movies, and fell in love.
Meanwhile, I was either drilling vocabulary or rushing to a tutoring gig.
"Charlotte, do you really need to push yourself this hard?
"It's like you've forgotten how to be tired."
I'd just offer a polite smile and leave it at that.
They didn't understand.
I'd had enough of living on someone else's terms, begging for scraps of approval.
That crushing feeling of powerlessness over my own fate—I refused to ever feel it again.
I wasn't grinding for the present.
I was building a future for Grandma and me.
I remained at the absolute top of my class.
The scholarships practically poured in.
By my sophomore year, I used my savings to rent a modern apartment near Grandma's old place.
I moved her in immediately.
The place was modest, but it was spotless and flooded with sunlight.
As she looked around the sunlit rooms, her eyes welled up again.
"Sweetheart, you've worked too hard for this."
I shook her weathered, wrinkled hand.
"Grandma, our lives are only going to get better from here."
It was a vow.
It was the entire reason I kept breathing.
Occasionally, a thought of that family in Veridia would flicker by.
I wondered, briefly, how they were faring.
But the thought would vanish as quickly as it came.
Like a pebble dropped into the abyss, it failed to even stir a ripple.
My heart had been forged into iron during those countless lonely nights.
One of my electives was a Creative Writing seminar.
It was taught by Professor Ted Carter, a highly respected figure in the Literature Department.
He saw something in my writing that others missed.
He said my prose possessed a grit and clarity far beyond my years.
He pushed me to keep my pen moving.
"Charlotte, you have a rare gift. Don't let it wither away."
With his backing, I started submitting my work to various literary journals.
At first, it was nothing but a wall of silence and rejections.
I didn't let it break me; I just kept writing and kept submitting.
In my junior year, one of my short stories was picked up by a top-tier national journal.
The check was for $1,500.
It was more than I'd make in two months of back-breaking tutoring.
More importantly, it was the validation I desperately needed.
It turned out that the one talent I was once mocked for could actually open doors for me.
That night, my phone buzzed with a call from Margaret—the first in nearly a year.
We hadn't spoken a single word in all that time.
I pressed "accept" with a steady hand.
"Hello."
On the other end, her voice was as entitled and condescending as ever.
"Charlotte, how have you been lately?"
Margaret sounded exhausted, yet her tone remained insufferably haughty.
"I'm fine," I replied tonelessly.
"Good, good."
She clearly didn't give a damn about my well-being; she cut straight to the chase.
"Your brother is working on a major research project. He needs some extra funding.
"His mentor is very impressed. If this succeeds, it'll fast-track his entire career."
I listened in absolute silence.
I knew all this fluff was just a lead-up to the real punchline.
Sure enough, she paused, her voice shifting into a command.
"Since you're back home, I assume you've managed to save up a bit.
"Send over $15,000 for his emergency fund."
Fifteen thousand dollars.
The sheer audacity of her demand was staggering.
To her, it was probably just a trivial sum.
Just another stepping stone for her son's glorious future.
And I was expected to hand it over without a second thought.
"Don't complain about the amount. This is for your brother.
"When he succeeds, our whole family succeeds.
"One day, you'll be glad to have him looking out for you."
The same old tired script.
For the good of the family.
I had to suppress a cold, bitter laugh.
In their minds, Michael was the family. What was I?
Just a backup blood bank?
I took a slow breath, keeping my voice perfectly flat.
"I don't have the money."
The line went dead silent for a heartbeat.
Margaret clearly hadn't expected such a blunt refusal.
When she spoke again, her voice was a sharp, shriek.
"What did you just say!
"Charlotte Evans, you say that again!"
"I said, I don't have the money."
I repeated it, my voice even calmer than before.
"My scholarships go to tuition. My tutoring pay goes to rent and supporting Grandma.
"There is no surplus."
"Liar!" Margaret screamed, her voice shaking with rage.
"I heard from the relatives! You won some essay prize—thousands of dollars!
"Don't you dare try to play me!"
So, they still had their spies keeping tabs on me, monitoring the value of their backup asset.
It was pathetic.
"That money went to Grandma's medical bills."
I let the lie slip easily through my teeth.
I didn't owe her an explanation about the new hearing aid I was buying.
No point.
"You..."
Margaret was sputtering with indignation.
"You selfish, ungrateful brat!
"After all the years we spent raising you, you only care about that old hag of a grandmother, don't you? We mean nothing!"
A stream of toxic vitriol poured through the receiver.
I listened without moving.
I felt absolutely nothing.
To them, the woman who had actually raised me was just an "old hag."
In that moment, even my anger vanished.
All that remained was a vast, empty sadness.
Blood ties are truly the cruelest joke of all.
They sustain nothing.
They are merely tools for the shameless to use as emotional blackmail.