Ever since I returned from the hospital, I'd been living like a tightly wound machine. I spent my days buried in test prep at school and my nights killing myself over chores at home.

I was severely sleep-deprived. I could only catch up on rest during the ten-minute breaks between classes or memorize a couple of vocabulary words on my way to the restroom.

My teacher, Gretchen Moyer, called me in for a talk. She gazed at the dark rings under my eyes, deeply concerned.

"Emily, you haven't been yourself lately. Your mock exam scores have dropped out of the top 50 in your grade. If this continues, you might not even make it to a first-tier college. Is something going on at home?"

I shook my head and forced a smile that felt more painful than crying.

"No, Ms. Moyer. I just haven't been studying efficiently."

I didn't dare to tell her the truth. I was terrified that if I spoke up, Ms. Moyer would make a home visit and talk to Mom.

That would only convince Mom that I'd been "telling tales" and shaming her. She would take all that frustration and turn it into even more chores and more bills for me to pay.

I clutched my dismal report card until my knuckles turned white.

When I got home, what awaited me wasn't comfort but another round of Mom's "value assessment".

"This is the best you can do? Looks like you're not capable of much." She took a bite of her watermelon, spitting the seeds onto the floor. "I've said it all along—what's the use of girls getting so much education?

"You'd be better off working early and helping the family. Oh, by the way, Arnold wants to sign up for guitar lessons. It's two thousand dollars a semester.

"How's that college tuition of yours coming along? If you can't get into a good school, don't waste the money. How about you use it for Arnold's lessons instead?"

I felt all the blood in my veins turn to ice.

In their eyes, the meager savings I'd painstakingly earned through countless sleepless nights and bleeding hands weren't even as important as Arnold's latest hobby.

Arnold sat nearby, eyes glued to his video game. When he heard this, he looked up and shouted, "Yeah, Mom's right! You're not going to get in anyway, so that money might as well go to me."

I looked at their smug, self-righteous faces, and my stomach churned. I didn't cry and I didn't make a scene. I knew by now that tears held no currency here.

Instead, I simply picked up the broom and began sweeping up the watermelon seeds Mom had spit across the floor.

"I'll pay you five dollars for sweeping the floor," Mom said, mistaking my silence for obedience. She generously quoted her price. "Scrub the toilet later, and I'll give you another ten. In fact, I'll give you 15 dollars for the whole lot today."

I nodded. "Okay."

I needed money for travel, for tuition, and for the emergency fund that would keep me alive once I finally escaped.

That night, as I knelt on the cold tiles scrubbing the toilet, my mind frantically cycled through words—exhausted, desperate, rebellion, escape.

Each word cut into my heart like a blade, leaving bloody gashes behind.

I scrubbed with a vengeance until every single tile in the bathroom sparkled.

Mom came by to inspect my work and nodded with satisfaction. She pulled 15 dollars from her wallet and handed it over.

"Good job. Here's your money."

I took the bills and tucked them deep into my pocket.

Back in my room, I opened the ledger and wrote "15 dollars paid" next to the entry that said, "Owe Mom 600 dollars".

Then, I pulled out a map. My gaze traveled south, then all the way north—past countless cities—until it finally settled on the city of Harboreal.

It was 1,250 miles away, a place of nothing but snow and ice.

It was far enough.

I closed the map, took out my practice exams, and started frantically grinding through the questions.

The day the SATS were over, I tallied up my estimated score; it was 20 points higher than my best-ever practice test. Harboreal College was practically in the bag.

When the acceptance letter arrived, Mom happened to be out. My hands trembled as I took the envelope stamped with "Harboreal College" from the mailman. I hid it at the very bottom of my backpack, then picked up the mop and started cleaning the floor as usual.

I didn't pack a single thing until the day before classes were set to start.

That day, I slammed the acceptance letter and train ticket down on the dining table.

"I'm leaving for Harboreal to start college after this meal."

Mom was cutting steak for Arnold when she heard me. Her fork jerked, and the meat dropped onto the table.

She picked up the acceptance letter in disbelief, staring at the school's name for a long time before finally looking at me.

"Harboreal? Why would you go all the way out there? Are you insane? Do you have any idea how expensive the travel fare will be? What's wrong with the state college I told you about? It's close to home, and it costs less."

"I'm going to Harboreal, and that's that."

"What about your tuition?" She sneered, certain she'd found my weak spot. "I'm not going to give you a single cent! Let's see how you manage then."

Arnold gloated from his seat. "Yeah! How are you going to pay for college with no money? You think you're Harboreal College material? Please."

I ignored him. Instead, I pulled out a heavy metal box from under my bed. Inside was a mountain of crumpled ones, fives, tens, and twenties, with only a few hundred-dollar bills mixed in.

My total savings came to 8,365 dollars and 50 cents. It was everything I'd earned since elementary school through blood, sweat, physical wounds, and my own dignity.

"When did you save all this?" Mom stared at the pile, her eyes wide.

"Starting the day you told me I had to earn every single cent myself." I stood up and slung my already-packed bag over my shoulder. "This is enough to cover my first year's tuition and my travel. I'll earn the rest myself."

"Emily!" Mom shot up from her chair, her expression livid. "Don't you dare leave! If you do, who's going to take care of us and do the chores?"

That was the funniest joke I'd ever heard. I looked at her enraged face and, for the first time, I smiled.

"Mom, you can always hire a housekeeper. But I doubt you'll find one as cheap and hardworking as me."

With that, I pulled the door open and walked out without looking back.

Behind me, Mom's voice rose into hysterical curses.

"You ungrateful brat! If you have the nerve to leave, don't you ever come back! I can't wait to watch you starve out there! Don't come crawling back to me!"

I'd just reached the bottom of the stairs, ready to rush toward the freedom ahead, when a sudden shriek erupted behind me.

"You want to leave? Fine. But leave the money behind!"

I spun around to see Mom and Arnold charging down the stairs like predators.

"I gave birth to you! Your life belongs to me, so your money belongs to me too!" Mom shrieked, lunging straight for the money-filled backpack.

Arnold circled around from the other side, reaching out to snatch the train ticket from my hand. "You think you can leave without giving us the money? Give me the ticket!"

There were only three hours left until my train departed.

They had me cornered at the stairwell entrance. Behind me was the darkness of the hallway, and ahead of me stood two thieves.

I tightened my grip on my backpack straps. As I looked at their twisted faces, only one thought remained—no one was going to stop me from leaving that day.