Chapter One
Starving for love
The walls in my room are painted the color of the sky—light blue with fake little clouds brushed across the ceiling like someone thought they could trick me into feeling free. The room’s barely big enough for one twin bed, let alone two—but somehow I share it with my older brother.
Our two-bedroom house never gave us the space we needed, but at least it’s a house. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Once, I asked my mom why we couldn’t get something bigger. So that my brother can at least have his own bed instead of a futon in the living room, or worse, my floor.
“I don’t have money like that, Jainey. Maybe if your dad wasn’t such a deadbeat and actually helped me with the kids he helped create, we could have more than this two-bedroom box with one tiny ass bathroom,” she snapped.
The older I get, her resentment towards us gets even worst. She hates my father for leaving her stuck to be a single mom with two kids.
And little does she know, the feeling is mutual.
Sometimes I wonder what life would’ve been like if I had gone with him instead of her. But then I remember the way she talks about him—and how he doesn't have shit going for himself.
And honestly, she probably isn’t lying. I’ve only seen him a handful of times anyway—when she didn’t feel like dealing with us. Every time felt rushed, and half-hearted, like he wanted to disappear before he could even earn the title Dad.
After I turned eight, she made sure we never saw him or his side of the family ever again. She hates them almost as much as she hates him.
The thing about carrying that much hate in your heart is that it leaks out, spilling onto everything, and everyone. You forget how to love because you’re too busy choking on bitterness focused on negativity.
That’s how my mom lives—spitting venom, covering up her wounds with anger, and pretending it makes her stronger. But the truth is—she’s broken. And no matter how much I want her to love me, she can’t. She aims all that poison and hatred at me—her youngest kid, her only daughter.
The few times my mom brought us around her side of the family, everybody swore up and down I was her little twin.
“She looks just like you!” they’d say, all smiles like it was supposed to be some kind of compliment.
Yeah, her “spitting image.” I can’t imagine how someone can treat their mirror image like shit, but hey—maybe that’s the point.
What makes the cut even deeper is that she wasn’t always like that.
There were moments—rare ones—where I caught glimpses of the mom I wished I had all the time.
Like when I’d slip into her clothes and strut around trying to imitate her, or when we’d sit in the car and joke about random people on the street.
For a second, it almost felt like love. Like maybe she saw me for me.
But even in those moments, I still felt the empty space where hugs and affection should’ve been.
Sometimes she’ll take me shopping before the school year starts, buying clothes she wants me to wear. Most kids would’ve been thrilled. But I knew it was just another way for her to control me.
But whatever—I don’t complain. I’m just happy to be anywhere but inside that suffocating house. Trips? Vacations? Family outings? Please. She works too much for that, let her tell it.
Either way, holidays are nothing but the three of us, stuck in the same four walls, pretending that everything is normal.
So yeah, the mall or even a grocery store feels like an event in my childhood.
Imagine being excited to walk through Target like it was Disneyland. That’s my life.
? ? ?
I’ve been going to school on the rich side of town since second grade, I learned real quick that privilege isn’t humbled—it walks the halls in fresh Jordans and designer backpacks like it owns the place.
While I just want to fit in. To feel normal for once, instead of like the broke kid who can’t get her mom to buy her even the simplest of shit.
It’s mid-December, right before Christmas break—also one of my my favorite time’s of the year. Mrs. Lopez, my eighth-grade teacher, practically breathes Christmas spirit. The classroom walls explode with color, projects from all year hanging everywhere, but the Christmas crafts steal the show.
“Alright class, listen up. As you all know, the school is putting together a special donation fund…” she says, voice bright, pulling everyone’s attention.
She goes on about how one student is going to get a surprise gift over break, donated by the school and community.
“You are loved, seen, and cared for,” she says, smiling that teacher smile, scanning our faces like she really believes it.
Meanwhile, most of the kids sitting here have parents who don’t even flinch at six-figure paychecks. They’ll wake up to piles of presents that cost more than my our rent. So asking us all to write down one thing we really wanted is a game for them. But for me, it’s everything.
My answer is instant—white Vans.
I begged my mom weeks ago when I saw how popular they were.
I promised to keep them spotless, thinking maybe that would be the issue.
But when I asked, she didn’t even blink.
Didn’t even look at me. “No. White shoes? Please. You love trying to be like everyone else. Don’t embarrass me.
I’d never buy those things for you, not now, not ever. ”
Her words sliced like glass—sharp, small, and impossible to pull out. Other moms spoiled their daughters with little gifts, all the time and most times they don’t even have to ask.
While I’m left with humiliation and rejection. All over a pair of shoes.
So, when Mrs. Lopez said to write something down, I could barely sit still. My hand shakes with how fast I scribble it out, folding the paper, passing it forward. My whole body buzzing like maybe—just maybe—this time, I’ll get to feel seen. That someone might actually pick me.
? ? ?
It’s a Saturday afternoon and the house is quiet except for This Christmas floating through the TV speakers. Mom’s at work, which means it’s just me and Sonny. The silence usually feels like it’s choking us, but when she’s not here, it’s different. Cleaner even.
My brother and I will never admit it, because saying it out loud would mean admitting something worse—that we don’t love our mom.
There is a knock at the door and my stomach turns as I glance at Sonny.
We’re not supposed to answer the door when she’s not home—her rules—but my curiosity is pulling harder than her rules right now.
I creep towards the window, and I see Mrs. Lopez standing with two women in bright colored Christmas sweaters, smiling like they’ve just won the lottery.
A shiny gift bag is in my teachers hand, red tissue paper spilling out. My hands tremble as I twist the knob, like I’m breaking some unspoken law. But deep down, I know—I have to open this door.
Mrs. Lopez smiles like I’m not invisible for once. Then she says they picked me for the Christmas donation. I can barely even hear the words, not over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.
I freeze. I want to rip that bag out of her hands and lock myself in my room, so I can drown in the relief of being chosen.
But that’s what they’d expect of me. I know better. Good girls don’t grab, they have manners. Good girls say thank you and pretend they’re not starving for scraps. So, I thank them, voice trembling as I grab the bag like it’s made of glass.
Closing the door Sonny looks at me, calm as ever while I’m about to burst.
“I’m happy for you, baby sister,” he admits, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Then after a pause, steady as stone he warns, “but you know mom won’t be.”
Just like that, my sparks fade. I feel bad he stopped expecting good things from her a long time ago. Four years older, and he already knows what I haven’t quite figured out yet—stop asking for something she doesn’t know how to give.
Still, I can't hide the excitement flowing throughout my body. So, I wait for her to come home so I can show her.
How can she not be happy for me?
? ? ?
By the time she comes home, the excitement is eating me alive. I rush over, shoes in hand blurting out the whole story like maybe she’ll meet me with happiness instead of the usual disappointment.
Her expression freezes over, her voice turning razor-sharp.
“They only chose you because you’re the only black kid in the classroom.
They think we’re broke. You’re not special.
I already told you to stop trying to be like everyone else.
But look at you, asking these people for shoes!
How many times do I have to tell you they don’t care about you.
It’s just fucking charity for them.” She scoffs, walking around me like I’m not worth another second of her time.
It doesn’t matter that I broke her stupid rule about the door.
Doesn’t matter how badly I want her to just see me happy.
The only thing she cares about is making sure my joy doesn’t survive the fucking night.
And it worked.
Excitement curdles into shame, until all I feel is defeat sharp enough to ruin me.
Her words scratch at my skin—is that all I am to people? A pity project? A charity case? I’ve never had anything that feels like my own, never been chosen for anything—and somehow, she still finds a way to kill what little joy I had.
This house isn’t a safe space for my emotions or feelings. And love—the one thing a mother is supposed to give without question—can cut deeper than hate. I don’t understand how does a mother look her own child in the face and choose cruelty every single time?
Like kindness is some foreign concept she refuses to learn.
It breaks me because all I ever wanted was for her to try. If the person who made me can’t love me, what chance do I have anywhere else?