Chapter 8

After disconnecting from the call, I let out a satisfied sigh. Leaving New York and the girls behind has been harder than anticipated. While it's nice that Adrian is close by, things just aren't the same without my girls around.

Belle's parting words reverberate in my mind as I slowly rise from my chair and traipse toward the bookshelf in the corner of my room.

I pull out a thin volume, my fingers tracing the worn glossy cover of my seventh-grade yearbook, flip it open, and gingerly take out the yellowed pages of my handwritten essay nestled there. I smile at the scribble on top of the page, the words bringing back a fond memory during a dark time.

Excellent job, Millie. "The best way to predict your future is to create it." Even if the road is hard and the skies are gray, you're bravely walking forward, one step at a time, and one day, you'll find yourself on top of the mountain, the sun shining on your face, and you'll look down and be amazed at how far you've climbed.

I looked up at Mr. Roberts as he handed me back my paper at the end of English class. The topic was to write a personal essay about a difficult life experience that had a significant impact on us.

I remembered feeling the burst of anger when I received the prompt. When was life not difficult for our family? For Dad? For Adrian? For me? Especially in the last five years, with Adrian at Cornell and barely at home, Dad doing marginally better than when we were in LA, when he buried himself in photo albums and video recordings of Mom with the bottle as his best friend.

When I got back to our cramped apartment on the outskirts of Brooklyn after school a week ago, my notebook in my hand, because we couldn't afford a laptop, I angrily scribbled the darkness living inside my heart on the yellow, lined pages. The festering, molding darkness which was growing into a monster of its own.

I wrote about how unfair life was. How my life turned upside down when Mom was diagnosed with cancer ten years ago. How I barely, just barely, remembered the good moments when everyone was happy. And how I'd hold on to those memories like they were a lifeline.

Mom and Dad dancing in the kitchen to some song on the radio when I'd clap in glee because they looked like the princes and princesses from the fairy tales Mom read to me at bedtime, the stories that always ended with "and they live happily-ever-after." How Adrian would make a puking sound when Mom and Dad threw their heads back and laughed before Dad planted a loud kiss on Mom's mouth. How Mom would blush and giggle afterward. Our apartment was small, the linoleum already peeling on the kitchen counters, the bathroom door had a broken lock, but we were so happy back then.

Beautiful, bittersweet memories of the past. Colorless, hopeless gray of my future.

My essay was a mess of graphite on crinkled paper, angry slashes nearly digging holes into a sheet which was dotted with the dried spots of my tears. I poured my heart into it and told whoever was reading I hated my life.

I hated how I had to put on a brave face every day at home so Dad wouldn't worry about me or feel guilty about his sadness. After all, how could you ever recover from losing the love of your life?

I had to pretend life was great whenever Adrian visited from Cornell, because I wanted to see my older brother happy, but even that seemed impossible because he only turned more withdrawn after we left LA.

I knew he tried his hardest to pretend everything was fine whenever he came home, but I also knew the anger I felt inside me was twenty times more in him, because he was older and he knew a lot more about our situation, and how could two angry people comfort each other?

So, I had to be brave. I had to pretend everything was awesome, that I wasn't sad or missing Mom like I'd missed an amputated limb.

When we had our first school dance earlier this year, and my friends were dress shopping with their moms, complaining how their moms wouldn't let them buy this or that, I had to stifle the burning anger and aching sadness in my gut because I didn't want any dress. I didn't need the fancy shoes. I didn't even want to go to the dance.

I'd give anything just to have one more day with her. To feel her wrap her arms around me and tell me everything was fine because she was here.

I ended the essay saying school was pointless. Life was pathetic. The future was hopeless. This essay was ridiculous. For one insane moment, I didn't want to pretend anymore. I didn't want to be the good student, the perfect daughter, the sweet sister.

The fucking caregiver.

I. Just. Wanted. To. Be. Angry. He could give me an F on the paper for all I cared.

"Mr. Roberts, I-I wasn't expecting—"

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his pale hand, freckled with age spots, brushed the thick clump of gray hair on his head. "You thought you were going to get in trouble?"

Wordlessly, I nodded, still clutching the paper in disbelief.

He sat down next to me.

"My dad died in a boating accident when I was twenty years old."

I squinted at him, trying to imagine a much younger Mr. Roberts.

He chuckled. "I know. It was when dinosaurs roamed the earth."

I stifled a grin.

"He was fishing. It was something he loved to do whenever the opportunity came up. A few days home from school, summer vacation, a special Friday or two when he'd ‘call in sick' for me." He winked, fondness in his husky voice.

"But that day, it was a Saturday during Labor Day weekend. I had a barbecue to attend with my friends from college so I couldn't go fishing with him. He went anyway. The weather suddenly became unpredictable, and his little boat capsized. He washed ashore two days later."

Mr. Roberts's voice was sullen, his pale blue eyes taking on a faraway glint, and for a moment, I could see the shadow of a young man who found out his father wasn't coming home.

"I was devastated and angry at myself. I thought, if I went with him, perhaps I could've saved him. I was younger, stronger, a better swimmer."

He glanced at me and gave me a sad smile. "A million what-ifs. I was mad at life, the world, everyone, and everything, even though I knew this was a freak accident. Even though I knew being upset wouldn't change my reality. I thought, what was the point of everything if life…fate…whatever you wanted to call it, could suddenly turn you upside down?"

He turned to me, his voice raspy, and said, "What I'm trying to say is, and this took me years to come to terms with, as an adult no less, that we live life as best as we can, to prepare for a tomorrow that is uncertain. We put one step in front of another and go on this beautiful hike that will be full of ups and downs, rough patches, and smooth pathways. I've lived a long life, Millie, and yours is just beginning."

Mr. Roberts covered his mouth as he coughed. "I've had a lot of rainy days, but also my share of sunny, beautiful ones. And while you may feel like everything is wrong with the world right now, that somehow, there's no hope for the future, you're still shaping your future, step-by-step, little-by-little. What you're experiencing right now, including writing this essay, is part of creating and molding that future…your journey. This isn't permanent, and if you continue to put one foot in front of the other and envision a tomorrow that's different from what you're going through right now, it'll come to fruition."

"But what if life continues to beat me down?" I whispered.

I didn't know how long I could continue being strong for everyone around me.

"From what I read in this essay, young lady, you are strong. A fighter. You're still standing, aren't you? And that quote on top of the paper is from Abraham Lincoln. He, too, went through his share of traumas and became the president of the country. Put one step in front of the other, create your own destiny, your own future. And one day, you'll look back and realize you're already there."

I got an A on the paper.

Then he'd make it a habit to ask me how I was doing every day after class. He told me he wished there were family services or counseling available in our district, but our neighborhood wasn't wealthy enough and the funding was cut a few years ago. So instead, he took it upon himself to be there for students in need.

Students like me.

He taught me to channel my anger and emotions into something more useful—reading, writing, gardening, a hobby to honor Mom's memory. He told me he'd still go fishing on holidays, something he liked to do to honor his dad.

It was then I decided I wanted to become a teacher. Just like him. To make a difference to other girls out there who may feel life was hopeless. Then someday, I would work my way into policymaking and hopefully put back those much-needed family and counseling services in underserved school districts.

The paper crinkles in my hand as I re-read my hasty scribbles, the pencil marks almost faded over the years. I swallow the lump in my throat and expel a deep breath, trying my best to dislodge it.

That girl is still inside me. Still faking it to the world to the best of her abilities. Still trying to be the happy daughter her dad won't have to worry about, still trying to be the positive sister for her older brother, who is still burning hot with rage.

But I'm stronger now. I'm brave.

I'm a fighter.