3:
Michael didn’t come home before the
program started.
I had no one to borrow money from, and I was
four months from turning eighteen.
I had to leave in three.
I couldn’t get a loan.
So, I looked to him.
He thought I was just jealous and called me a
liar.
I couldn’t bring myself to ask him for the
money.
Then, he deposited the money in my account.
I didn’t touch it.
I got a student loan, but it wasn’t enough.
I tutored international students to make
money.
Michael came home with Lynn.
She giggled. “Oops, sorry! Am I interrupting a
date?”
Michael’s expression was sour.
He stalked over and saw Kevin on the screen.
Kevin said hello to Michael, but Michael
yanked out the power cord.
I didn’t understand.
Kevin asked if I was okay.
Michael grabbed the phone. “Is this what you
do? Trying to make me jealous?”
I clenched my fists. I wanted to tell him about
the study abroad program and the money.
His eyes were so cold.
People who don’t want to hear the truth
won’t.
I shut down the computer and said, “I’m sorry.
I was wrong.”
He hesitated and Lynn took his arm. “It’s
okay, honey. She is old enough to date.”
She was like a loving relative.
I didn’t remember my mother’s face, but Lynn
looked a little like her.
Lynn started cooking.
Michael scoffed. “You just gonna sit around
and let her do all the work?”
He meant more than that.
I remembered the things he had done for me.
“I don’t know what to do…”
“Ask. Lynn’s not your maid. She’s going to be
your aunt!”
I went into the kitchen and saw Lynn lighting
the gas stove.
The blue flame triggered something inside
- me.
<
My parents died in a kitchen fire.
Michael said I would never see fire again.
We only had electric stoves.
The blue flame woke up memories.
I screamed, tripping over a cutting board.
Lynn jumped, spilling the hot oil onto her arm.
“Ah!”
Michael ran in, turned off the stove, and
looked at Lynn.
A blister on her arm.
She cried, but still said, “It’s okay. She didn’t
<
mean to.”
Michael glared at me. “She’s a model. What
are you doing? Don’t expect me to forgive
you if she has a scar.”
I wanted to say I was scared of the fire.
But he wouldn’t listen.
He took Lynn upstairs to treat her burn.
I tried to get up, but my leg was numb.
There was a huge gash.
The knife had landed there when I fell.
Flesh and blood.
No one cared.
I covered the cut, but the blood kept flowing.
I tried to call 911, but my phone was in the
living room.
“Uncle Michael, I’m hurt! My leg, can you take
me to the hospital?”
Nothing.
He was upstairs. He could hear me.
Lynn was a model. I was a dancer. Could a
one–legged dancer still dance?
His promises of protection and my
helplessness slammed together.
<
I cried, calling his name.
He stood on the stairs, looking down.
“My leg’s cut. I’m scared, can you help me?”
“To get my attention? Trying to manipulate
me again? I’m just your uncle.”
He was warning me.
But this was the truth.
I used to only have to frown for him to be up
all night.
He fed me when I was fifteen.
The maid said he was spoiling me.
<
He fired her.
Why did he think I was faking?
Were we not family?
I looked at him. Tears streamed down my
face.
He didn’t care and took Lynn to the hospital.
The door slammed.
The blood was cold. I was going to die.
I crawled to the living room.
Blood smeared everywhere.
<
The phone was ringing.
I answered it.
I couldn’t talk.
I was slipping away.
Am I going to die?
It’s okay…
Mom and Dad, I miss you.
