Chapter 2

Living with them again was hard work.

My hands were the first to show it. They became red and chapped from washing dishes and scrubbing floors. I had small cuts on my fingers from chopping vegetables for dinner every night.

One morning, Grandma took my hands in hers. She traced the rough skin with her thumb, her face full of concern.

"My poor girl," she said softly. "You' re doing too much."

She went to talk to my mom later that day. I heard their voices from the living room.

"Sarah, you can' t let Chloe do all the housework. Her hands are a mess. She' s just a child."

My mother' s reply was sharp and loud. "Oh, please, Mom. Don' t be so dramatic. She' s just trying to get attention, making everyone feel sorry for her. It' s what she does."

I stood frozen in the hallway. It wasn't about me being helpful. In her eyes, it was a trick. A performance. The sting of her words was worse than any cut on my hand.

Our family owned a small convenience store in town. I started working there after school, stocking shelves and running the register. I worked hard, hoping my parents would see my effort. I wanted them to say, "Chloe is such a hard worker. We' re so proud of her."

They never did.

One evening, I was in the back room, organizing inventory. The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear my parents talking to Brittany up front.

"Don' t worry about your sister, sweetie," my mom was saying. "You just focus on your music. You' re going to be a star."

"What about Chloe?" Brittany asked.

My dad laughed. It was a hollow, dismissive sound. "Chloe? She' ll be fine. She' ll probably just stay here, marry some local boy, and help run the store. That' s good enough for her."

Good enough for me. The words echoed in the small, dusty room. They had already decided my future. It was small and gray, and it had nothing to do with any dreams I might have had.

A few days later, I was cleaning the shelves in the store. I was reaching for a high shelf when my hand slipped, and a jar of cheap candy fell to the floor, shattering. It wasn' t expensive, maybe a dollar' s worth.

A customer was in the store. My mom was at the register.

She turned, saw the mess, and her face twisted with fury. She strode over to me, and without a word, she slapped me hard across the face.

The sound was loud in the quiet store. The customer gasped. My cheek burned, and my eyes filled with tears of shock and humiliation.

"You clumsy, useless girl!" she hissed, her voice low and venomous. "Can' t you do anything right?"

I didn't say a word. I just cleaned up the broken glass and candy with shaking hands, my face turned away so no one could see me cry.

That night, I went to Grandma' s room. I didn' t have to say anything. She just held me while I sobbed.

"Sometimes, Chloe," she said, stroking my hair, "some people are just not meant to be in your heart. You can' t force a connection that isn' t there. It' s like a bad seed; it will never grow no matter how much you water it. You need to focus on yourself. Study hard. Make your own way."

Her words gave me a new kind of hope. If I couldn' t earn their love by being helpful, maybe I could earn their respect by being smart.

I threw myself into my schoolwork. I studied every night until my eyes burned. And it worked. I brought home a report card with all A' s. I imagined my mom' s surprise, maybe even a smile.

A week later, it was my mother' s birthday. I decided to do something special. I spent all my saved-up pocket money on ingredients and baked her a cake. It wasn' t perfect. The frosting was a little lumpy, and the writing was wobbly, but I had made it myself.

I brought it to her that evening, my heart full of nervous hope. "Happy birthday, Mom."

She glanced at the cake. A look of disdain crossed her face.

"What is this?" she asked, her tone flat.

"I made it for you," I said.

"It' s ugly," she said, turning away. "Take it away. I don' t want it."

She gestured dismissively with her hand, knocking into my arm. The cake stand wobbled. I tried to catch it, but it was too late. It tilted, and the cake I had spent all day making slid off the plate and crashed onto the floor.

It lay there, a broken, lumpy mess. Just like my hope.