Chapter 2

Ever since I could remember, I knew my family was poor.

The house we lived in was falling apart, with patches of peeling paint all over the walls.

Whenever it rained, water would seep into the corners, and fuzzy mold would start to grow.

There wasn't a single new piece of clothing in my closet. Everything was hand-me-downs from my sister, Madelyn Wolfe.

The cuffs were so worn they were almost see-through. The colors were washed out, but Mom always insisted they were still wearable and there was no sense in wasting them.

She'd ruffle my hair and sigh, "Your dad and I work from dawn till dusk at the market stall. Every dollar we make is hard-earned. So you have to be more mature than other kids, okay?"

Dad would always look at me seriously and say, "You need to make us proud. Study hard, so you can make all our hard work worth it."

I'd clutch the worn-out hem of my shirt and nod hard.

Life was always a struggle.

I never had any spare money. When my classmates bought snacks, stickers, or colorful pens, I could only stand there and watch.

Whenever they chatted about eating pizza or going to the amusement park on the weekend, I had nothing to add. I stayed silent, staring at the floor.

When my stomach growled, I'd chug down a cup of warm water.

It made my stomach feel heavy and warm, so at least it didn't feel so empty anymore.

If I ever felt sick or hurt, I never said a word. I toughed it out on my own.

Last winter, I coughed for a whole month. At night, I'd cover my mouth so I wouldn't wake my parents. I was coughing so hard that tears streamed down my face.

But the next morning, I still slung my backpack over my shoulder and went to school as if nothing had happened.

Mom and Dad always praised me, saying, "Barbara is the most thoughtful kid."

When I heard that, I couldn't really say how I felt inside.

Honestly, there was so much I wanted to say to them.

I wanted to tell them my throat was scratchy and uncomfortable, and that the old backpack Madelyn handed down to me was falling apart. The straps were hanging by a thread.

I wanted to say I wished I could have even a tiny piece of cream cake for my birthday.

But deep down, I was scared.

I was scared that if I asked them to spend even a little more, Mom and Dad would end up even more exhausted.

I dreaded seeing that troubled look in their eyes, hearing them sigh, and knowing that my tiny wishes might be the last straw that pushed them over the edge.

At night, I lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep.

In the darkness, I stared at the ceiling, the doctor's serious face, and Mom and Dad's talk about selling off everything and losing it all kept swirling in my mind.

As dawn approached, I finally made up my mind.

If getting me treated meant ruining our family and pushing them over the edge, I'd rather disappear.

Outside the door, I heard the soft sounds of Mom and Dad getting up.

After a while, Mom slipped into the room.

"Barbara, your dad and I are heading out to the farmer's market. Breakfast's kept warm in the pot. Make sure you eat before heading to school," she said.

I lay in bed and gave a soft response. My eyes were shut tight. I couldn't look at her.

The door closed softly, and their footsteps faded into the distance.

The room was so quiet it was almost eerie. Only my heartbeat echoed in the silence.

I slowly sat up, pulled out a pen and paper from my backpack, and started writing a letter to Mom and Dad, carefully crafting each word.

When I finished, I folded it up gently and slipped it under my pillow.