Chapter 2: A Birthday Gift She Would Celebrate

Once that thought took root in my mind, my steps felt lighter.

I even started planning how to do it without troubling anyone. I needed to do something that wouldn't leave a mess.

But before I could carry out my plan, a patrolling officer spotted me and brought me home.

Mom answered the door.

As the door shut behind us, I stared at the floor, unable to meet her eyes.

Her icy tone sliced through the air. "Why didn't you just die out there?"

I almost snapped back, but I forced the words down before they came out.

Still, as I stared at her back, I couldn't stop myself from asking, "What would you do… if I really did die?"

Would she be the least bit sad?

"If you've got the guts, hurry up and do it. I'd celebrate."

She walked straight into my siblings' room and closed the door.

I stood rooted to my spot in the living room. After a long while, I wiped my face and let out a humorless laugh.

Mom would definitely like the birthday present I had prepared.

…

The kid who collected recyclables with me was an orphan named Samuel Hudson. He grew up bouncing from home to home and always knew how to find money where no one else would look.

After school, I bought him a popsicle.

We sat on the curb together, and I lowered my voice to ask how a person could die in a way that looked like an accident.

Samuel stared at me like I'd grown two heads. Then, he shoved the half-eaten popsicle into my hand. "Stay away from me. I'm not doing anything illegal," he said.

I blinked, holding two popsicles. "Illegal? What are you talking about? I'm serious. How does someone, you know… accidentally die? Preferably without too much pain, though. They might be scared."

He sucked in a sharp breath and tried to run.

I dropped the popsicles and grabbed him before he could get away. "You ate my treat. You're helping me whether you like it or not!"

Samuel gave up and plopped onto the sidewalk, looking miserable. "Dude, you have your parents. Why are you trying to die? Yeah, they hit you a lot—but they don’t exactly starve you either. Look at your arms. You're stronger than me."

The words stuck in my throat.

I wanted to tell him it was exactly because they weren't completely evil or kind that it hurt so much.

Now that I knew how I came to be, I couldn't even justify the anger and resentment I felt.

I didn't think I could keep living like this.

But saying any of that out loud would only cause more trouble for Mom, so I said hoarsely, "Just answer me. Are you helping or not?"

He wailed, "You're trying to kill your mom! Why would I get involved in that?"

I froze, staring at him in confusion. When did I ever say that?

Before I could explain, a shrill cry cut through the air. "Bad Guy's trying to hurt Mom!"

My brain stalled. Slowly, I turned toward the sound. It was my brother, Casper.

He burst out crying and screaming, sprinting so fast that one of his shoes flew off.

That night, the sound of hitting echoed through the house endlessly. Mom swung a broom at me like I was her worst enemy. Her eyes were red with fury.

But I saw something else, too—the tears in the corner of her eyes.

I'd seen them before. Back then, I thought she was pretending, and I would slam into her and promise that once I grew up, I'd make her pay for everything.

But that night, I curled up on the icy floor and didn't move.

Eventually, the broom slipped from her fingers, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Mom didn't look back. She just stumbled into her room.

A long time passed before I pushed myself up. I heard a muffled sob from behind her door—the kind that only escaped because she was trying so hard to hold it in.

The sob sliced at my heart like a blade.

My face stung, and I collapsed back onto the tiles. I covered my eyes with my arm, but all I felt was moisture.

It wasn't tears. It was blood mixed with dust.

Just like me, it was filthy.

"You know, when she was 19, she cried the same way."

I looked up sharply. Granny stood by the doorway, her cloudy eyes drifting somewhere between me and a memory she couldn't put down.

"That night, she came home with torn clothes and bruises. She didn't cry out loud. She just bit her lip until it bled."

My heart dropped.

"She tried to get rid of you, but she was too weak. After you were born, I abandoned you myself. But the police came the next morning, holding you, saying abandonment is a crime. They said they would check back."

My life was a ridiculous joke. No one welcomed my arrival, yet I was still here.

Granny cleaned my injuries like she always did. She looked tired, but she rambled on, "Don't blame her. She's been hurting for a long time."

I lowered my head and laughed. "Granny, I don't blame her anymore."

I didn't hate Mom anymore, but she still hated me enough to want me gone.

The night she pressed a pillow over my face, she didn't know I was awake. Her hands were shaking, but I didn't struggle. I just closed my eyes and waited.