Chapter Three
CHAPTER THREE
On Saturday, my solemn reflection peered back at me through the train window as the shiny, busy city faded into the quiet outer suburbs. I bounced my knees as I checked the time on my phone. An hour and a half of the trip had already passed. It took around two hours to get from the city to my family’s suburb, where my childhood home was tucked among chain-link fences and untrimmed yards.
The state of the area or the cramped, crowded house didn’t bother me, though. It wasn’t what made me flee to the city so quickly when I had the first chance. It was everything that happened in that house.
I sat up, preparing to arrive and get this lunch over with. Typically, I spent my weekends spending time with my friends, attending pilates classes or cozying up at home. It was safe to say this weekend was going to be a doozy.
When the train rolled to a stop with a hiss at the station closest to my parents’ house, I stood from my seat and hooked a cute but casual tote bag on my shoulder. No designer bags or expensive accessories for me today. No luxury-brand clothes or shoes. Whenever I went to my parents’ house, I dressed down. Today, I wore a pair of black jeans and a modest blouse, with a pair of ankle boots. It was the way to go to avoid drawing any extra attention. I had even pulled my hair back into a ponytail and saved my next nail appointment for when I returned to the city.
“Have a good day,” one of the train workers told me as I headed down the aisle toward the closest exit.
“You too!” I said, but my smile evaporated the moment I stepped off the train. I wanted to turn around and head straight back home, but if I missed lunch, it would cause too much drama.
People said the air was clearer out in the suburbs compared to the city, but all I smelled was my childhood: dust, greasy food, and gasoline. Everything reminded me of the past—the old buildings, the laced shoes thrown on power lines, the trash scattered on the street.
I hated thinking about the past.
With a tense jaw, I called an Uber to take me to my family’s home. Once in the car, I watched the passing scenery: the empty parking lots and broken-down cars left on the side of the street. The Uber turned onto my family’s street, taking me past old houses with faded paint, damaged roofs with tarps on them, graffiti-stained concrete sidewalks, and shady people lurking on their porches and street corners.
Not much had changed since I lived here. It was a forgotten part of town, and the local government didn’t want to waste a dime on an area that didn’t offer them any benefits in return.
“You can just stop right here,” I told my driver when he was a few houses down from mine.
“You sure?” he asked, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.
I nodded. “Yes. Please.”
Once he pulled to a stop in the street, I thanked him and got out of his black sedan before crossing over to the sidewalk, stepping around the cracks and splits in the marked concrete. With every step closer I took to my old home, my stomach churned more and more.
I didn’t want to be back here, but I didn’t have much of a choice. I couldn’t be the woman who abandoned her own family as soon as she became successful.
I stopped in front of a small brick house with a worn-down wooden front porch. The grass on either side of the walkway was overgrown, tumbling onto the concrete in front of me. The windows were slightly foggy from their old panes, and if I got close enough, I’d see the dust on them too.
“Come on,” I whispered to myself, willing myself to get this over with.
Swallowing hard, I walked up to the front porch, the wooden steps creaking and groaning beneath me. I knocked on the front door, able to smell the aging wood and the dirty welcome mat.
The door swung open a few seconds later, revealing my mother in her usual pair of blue jeans and a pink shirt that hung off her body. Her hair was the same shade of golden blonde as mine, though hers was streaked with gray. Her hair had been pulled up into a tight, short ponytail.
“You showed up,” my mother stated.
“I said I would,” I replied with a forced smile. “Is everyone else here?”
“Sure are,” my mother said before turning and disappearing back into the house.
I followed her inside, my nose immediately assaulted with conflicting smells—my mother’s favorite vanilla wax burner melts, leather from my father’s jackets and boots lying around in the small foyer, barbecue sauce, and smoke from the kitchen.
“Brooke is here,” my mother announced as I entered the attached kitchen and dining room.
My father, my older brother Brandon, and his wife Gemma were all sitting around the dining room table.
“Hey, Dad,” I said as he stood from the table with a bottle of beer in his hand.
“Good to see you, girl,” my father told me as he gave me a side hug, the smell of grill smoke lingering on his shirt.
“You too,” I said before walking around the table to hug Brandon, who looked more like our father with his shaggy black hair and thin, tall frame. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Brandon replied as he patted the back of my shoulder. “Glad you could come all the way out here. I know you’re busy and all that.”
“I always have time for my family,” I said, before being swept into a hug by Gemma. She was five feet tall, and had dyed her hair platinum blonde.
“Ohh, you smell good! What is that?” Gemma asked after a deep inhale.
Shit. I’d dressed down, but I still sprayed my usual Coco Mademoiselle perfume on today. If I said it was Chanel, my mom’s eyes would roll out of her head.
“It’s just a free sample I got from the mall. I forgot the name,” I lied.
Gemma plucked a leather Coach bag off the empty seat next to hers and dangled it in front of me. “Like my new bag? I got it last week.”
I glanced over at my brother, who didn’t say anything, just took a sip of his beer. Everyone liked nice things, but I knew that as a beautician, Gemma couldn’t afford all the designer handbags she bought without the credit card debt that came with them. Given all of my brother’s failed businesses over the years, he didn’t exactly have extra cash to give her for luxury goods.
“It’s nice,” I told her, giving an impressed smile before sitting at the other end of the table so I didn’t have to sit directly next to anyone.
Mom carried over a platter of barbecue chicken to set next to the bowls of mashed potatoes, green beans, and dinner rolls already on the table. She sat across from my brother before gesturing to the food. “Alright, everyone. Go on.”
I waited for everyone to grab their fill before placing a piece of chicken breast and a serving of green beans on my plate. If I was honest, I never had much of an appetite when I visited home, but if I didn’t eat something, my family would accuse me of being on some sort of fancy diet or, God forbid, a juice cleanse.
“Work going good?” Dad asked before picking up a chicken thigh with his hands and biting into its side.
“Yes, busy as usual,” I said, keeping my eyes on my plate as I rearranged my green beans with my fork. “Are you … working?”
“Of course,” Dad scoffed. “I’m helping my buddy Joe at the auto shop.”
That would last a few weeks before my father ultimately pissed Joe off and got fired—or he got bored and quit. My father always claimed to be employed, but when I was working part-time in town as a teenager, I often caught him day drinking or gambling instead of working. I doubted that had changed.
At least my mother kept a steady job at the supermarket.
“Are you still thinking about opening that car detailing business you told me about last time?” I asked Brandon.
Brandon shrugged as he stuffed the last half of a dinner roll into his mouth. “I’ve been doing some research, and I think a donut shop might be a better investment. Pretty cheap to make donuts.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic—a donut shop would probably be cheaper to run than a car detailing business—but it was clear nothing had changed with him either. Every time I visited, he talked about the new business he’d start, the one that would finally make him rich.
I’d lost count of how many businesses he’d started over the years.
Everyone went silent as they ate, but I noticed them all glancing at each other, and my body went tight with tension. I knew what was about to happen.
“It’s been a little tough the last few months,” Mom told me with a frown. “We’ve been doing our best and working hard, but we fall short sometimes.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even nod because I knew they didn’t care about my reaction. They only wanted a specific answer from me.
“We’re glad you’re still doing well at your job,” Dad spoke, prompting nods from everyone else. “But we need some help. The plumbing in this house is a mess. We’re at risk of being flooded if it doesn’t get fixed soon.”
There it was.
“I gave you a few thousand last month,” I reminded them in a calm voice, fighting the frustration that crackled through me like bolts of lightning.
“That went to new tires for your father’s truck and bills,” Mom told me. “When you get older, things start piling up and adding up.”
I was old enough to understand how expenses worked, and I was responsible enough not to land myself in debt like them.
I couldn’t keep giving them money. Each time I visited, I told myself I’d stop, and I never did.
This time, I’d put a stop to the cycle.
I took a deep breath. “I understand,” I replied, folding my hands in my lap. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to the house, even if it didn’t feel like home anymore, but I highly doubted any money I gave them would be used for plumbing. “But I’m sorry. I can’t give you any more money.”
The air shifted immediately. Dad downed the rest of his beer before setting the empty bottle on the table with a loud thump, making me flinch. “Why not? Do you know all the money we spent raising you and your brother?”
That was an argument as old as time. I couldn’t count how many times he had used that one on me.
I hadn’t asked to be born. As parents, it was their responsibility to raise me. I was grateful that they’d never neglected me — we’d always had food on the table and books for school — but that was literally the bare minimum.
Besides, they hadn’t been the most supportive family growing up. Once, in high school, I made the mistake of telling them I wanted to be a lawyer. Immediately, Mom and Dad told me it was impossible. They couldn’t afford to pay for my college, and I’d have to go to a community college, or better yet, get a job as soon as I graduated.
Thankfully, I’d won a scholarship to attend college and taken out student loans to cover the rest of my expenses. Ashcroft paid me a high salary, so I’d paid off my student loans a few years ago.
“I don’t want to argue,” I said, “but every time I’ve given you money, you’ve wasted it. You haven’t fixed up the house, the truck, or paid off any debts. You’re spending it on alcohol or gambling it away. I even paid for a business course for Brandon, and he dropped out halfway.”
“Because it was a scam! They were teaching me stuff I already knew. There was no point in finishing it,” Brandon said, and Gemma clung to his arm, shooting me a warning glare.
“You really think we’ve blown thousands of dollars on stuff like that?” my mother questioned me.
“I know you have. I gave you money to help pay off the mortgage, and you spent it on a vacation to the beach,” I reminded her.
They tried hiding all their irresponsible spending from me, but they lived in a rundown house with dozens of overdue bills piled up on the kitchen counter. It didn’t help that they blasted their vacation photos or pictures of new phones or silly gadgets on Facebook.
“So, we don’t deserve a vacation? We all bust our asses as much as you, but we can’t spend a weekend at the beach without getting judged for it?” Dad demanded.
“I didn’t say that,” I said, trying to keep my voice level and calm despite the anxiety creeping beneath my skin.
I’d dealt with angry clients at my work before, but this was different. This was my family, and it hurt like a thousand knives every time they were angry with me.
I wanted to get out of here. Now.
“You’re kind of saying that,” Gemma muttered as she twisted her hair around her finger.
“What I’m hearing is that you don’t care if we suffer or not,” Mom snapped at me, her face turning red. “You can buy all your fancy clothes and purses and stuff the pockets of corporations with a bunch of money, but you can’t even help your own family!”
A lump formed in my throat. I’d heard this a million times.
“You didn’t use to be this selfish,” Brandon said, shaking his head at me. “You can’t even help a little bit? I’m sure you can give up your Peloton subscription for a few months to chip in.”
I stared at him. He used to take my side when we were younger, but that had all changed once I went to college. He’d grown more distant with each of my achievements: getting into law school, starting my job at Ashcroft, getting promoted. Now he was on the same team as my parents, and I was always the only one defending myself.
“You know what? I don’t even want to see you here at our table. You don’t treat us like family, we won’t treat you like family,” Dad said as he swatted in my direction like I was a begging dog. “Let us know when you want to act like our daughter again.”
“Or a good person is an even better place to start,” my mother sneered at me.
My bottom lip threatened to tremble, but I maintained a straight face as I rose from the table. After years of dealing with my family, as well as working with difficult clients, I’d learned to be pretty good at hiding my emotions.
“Thank you for lunch,” I managed, and fought back my tears as I strode out of my childhood family home. The front door slammed shut behind me, and I almost jumped.
For the first fifteen minutes after getting kicked out of the house, I felt numb. My family’s harsh words played on a loop over and over again in my mind. I’d heard it all before — that I was a greedy lawyer who would rather help corporations make more money than help my own family. That I was a disappointment as a daughter.
It hurt how quickly they switched up. They’d actually been kind of friendly when I first arrived, but as soon as I didn’t agree to help them…
They only saw me as a money tree. As their own personal bank.
By the time I made it to a seat in the back of the train, I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer, and they spilled down my cheeks. I muffled my sobs with the back of my hand pressed against my mouth.
I was almost thirty. I wasn’t a helpless little girl anymore. So why did their words continue to wound me so deeply?