Part 1The Final Semester: 800,000 Reasons to Leave Home

When it was time to head back to college, my stepmother shoved a cheap, off-brand carton of milk into my suitcase.

"Take this. Drink it at school."

It was a leftover holiday gift from someone else that had been sitting untouched for months.

My dad leaned against the doorframe.

"I'm not giving you any money this semester. Didn't you make $2,000 working your winter break job? $500 a month for living expenses—that’ll cover you for four months perfectly."

"You're an adult now. It's time you learned to be independent."

My hand, in the middle of packing my suitcase, froze in mid-air.

Nearby, my younger sister, staring at her phone, suddenly screamed in excitement.

"Yes! I got the concert tickets!"

"Dad, hurry up and book my flights! And I want to stay in a five-star hotel!"

My dad wrapped an arm around her, immediately agreeing to everything.

My stepmother glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, the large hoop earrings she wore glinting in the light.

The three of them huddled together, laughing as they booked flights and hotel rooms.

I’ve watched this warm, picture-perfect family scene for ten years, and it still makes it hard to breathe.

Suddenly, a notification popped up on my phone.

[Chase Bank: Dear Ms. Harper Davis, your Certificate of Deposit ending in 1234 has matured. Principal balance: $800,000. To renew, please reply 1.]

* * *

A Certificate of Deposit?

I silently counted the long string of zeros on the screen. Eight hundred thousand dollars.

Assuming it was a scam text, I didn't reply.

"Dad, I was planning to use the $2,000 I earned from my winter job to get this mole removed."

My dad, Richard, glanced at the pea-sized dark mole near the corner of my mouth.

"You go off to college and suddenly you're full of wild ideas! Wasting money on useless vanity!"

"You're just like your dead mother—born with bad luck!"

My stepmother, Brenda, wearing a thick layer of foundation, batted her heavy fake eyelashes.

"Oh, Harper, sweetie. Wait until you graduate college, and I'll personally take you to get it removed."

Before, they used to say: Wait until you finish middle school. Wait until you finish high school. Wait until you get into college.

Now, the mole is getting bigger, and they've pushed it to: Wait until you graduate college.

Actually, before winter break started, I went to a clinic to ask about the price. It only cost $2,000.

For my entire winter break, I didn't take a single day off. I worked from open to close at a fast-food chicken joint.

Looking at my sister, Mia, happily humming a tune nearby, a knot of suffocating anger swelled in my chest.

"Dad, you didn't even blink before buying her a $2,000 VIP concert ticket, but you won't even give me $500 for a month's living expenses."

"I'm your biological daughter too!"

My dad's face turned beet red with rage.

"You think you can lecture your own father in this house?!"

"Fine! Since your mother has been dead for ten years anyway, I'll tell you the truth today!"

"Mia is my biological daughter with Brenda!"

Brenda turned her face away, refusing to look at me.

My mom died ten years ago. I am 18 this year; Mia is 14.

My dad started messing around with Brenda when I was four.

Back then, my mom wasn't sick yet. She was a top-tier CPA at a corporate firm, and she was always incredibly busy.

During those years, she would often spend entire days locked in her office.

I remember she always had a look of deep, irremovable sorrow on her face.

But the moment she saw me, she would automatically erase that sorrow, smile, and pull me into her arms.

When I was seven, my mom collapsed. She spent a year lying in a hospital bed.

Right before she passed, my dad held her hand.

"Evelyn, do you have any savings left under your name? You're leaving, but we still have to survive."

My mom was so emaciated her cheeks were hollowed out, her face completely devoid of color.

She motioned for my dad to lean in closer, and then she spat right in his face.

For all these years, my dad has held a deep, bitter grudge against my mom because of that.

With a look of pure disgust, I pulled that cheap carton of milk out of my suitcase.

Brenda turned her head back, looking visibly displeased.

My dad slammed his hand down on mine.

"Brenda was nice enough to pack that for you! How dare you be so ungrateful!"

"She specifically told the rest of us not to drink it so she could save it just for you!"

I struggled, but he clamped his hand down hard on my forearm.

An intense, searing pain shot up my arm, making my scalp tingle.

When frying chicken at work, hot oil frequently splashed onto my arms. My forearms were constantly covered in small burn blisters.

Tears welled up in my eyes from the pain.

"Did she save it just for me, or did she give it to me because literally nobody else wanted to drink it?"

"If it's such a 'good thing,' you should keep it here for Mia to drink!"

Smack.

My dad slapped me hard across the face.

This wasn't the first time I had been hit.

I wiped away my tears and looked at my dad's flushed, angry face.

He is 45 years old this year.

For all these years, I had clung to a desperate hope—the hope that my dad would eventually treat me a little better.

After all, I am his biological child. I am his only flesh-and-blood daughter from his first marriage.

I waited for ten years, and he hasn't changed one bit.

It turns out, I wasn't his only biological daughter. No wonder.

I kept my head down and continued packing my suitcase.

The new semester was about to start, and I would finally be able to leave this house.

But thinking about the pea-sized mole on my face, a wave of bitter sadness washed over me.

I didn't want to deal with people's weird stares anymore.

If only I had a sum of money right now.