I packed a duffel, called my friend Yuki, and crashed on her couch for a few weeks. Her parents were kind but confused. “Where are you going to go?” her mom asked one morning as I was folding laundry. I didn’t have an answer then.
But I had a plan.
I didn’t tell my dad anything. Not when I got into a state school with a tuition waiver. Not when I moved into a co-op housing unit with eight other broke students and no hot water after midnight. Not even when I made dean’s list my first semester.
He texted me twice in those first few months. Once to say “Hope you’re okay.” And again to ask if I wanted to come to my stepsister Lila’s piano recital.
I left him on read.
Lila wasn’t evil, to be fair. But she was clueless. The kind of girl who’d ask if I was still “doing that online class thing” while holding her designer handbag and sipping a lavender matcha from a cup she didn’t pay for. She once said, “It’s so brave how you’re not ashamed of struggling.” I nearly choked.
By the time I hit junior year, I had saved enough to cut down to one job. I started tutoring underclassmen for extra cash. Life still wasn’t easy—I ate more ramen packets than I care to admit—but it was mine. I had clawed my way back from nothing. I was proud of that.
Then came the twist I never saw coming.
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