Chapter 2The Thirty Thousand Dollar Daughter

Madison was suddenly standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. She wiped her manicured hands on a paper towel, not looking up.

"Honestly, it’s a pretty smart move," she offered casually. "Marrying someone with actual assets beats spending the rest of your life screwing caps on in a factory."

She paused, finally raising her eyes to meet mine. "Don’t take this the wrong way, Hazel, but for a factory girl to pull a guy who owns his own business? You’re marrying up."

Chester stood right behind her. He was smiling. He didn't defend me. My parents didn't say a word.

I slowly set down the soapy sponge. I dried my hands on a towel.

"I’m not marrying him."

I looked at my mother. "And I want my money back."

The kitchen fell dead silent for two agonizing seconds.

"What money?" my mother asked, her voice tight.

"The money I’ve sent home every month for the last six years. I kept the receipts. I kept a ledger. It totals exactly eighteen thousand dollars."

My father pushed off the doorframe. He took his cigarette and ground it out directly against the painted drywall.

"The money you sent home? That was your contribution to the roof over your head. You don't get to ask for that back."

"And did you ask me before you took my 'contribution' to buy Chester a house?"

Chester stepped out from behind Madison, a smug, arrogant smirk plastered across his face.

"Come on, Hazel, stop throwing a tantrum. You have a high school diploma. What the hell else are you gonna do with your life? Marry the rich guy, enjoy the easy life. Hell, when you get married, I’ll even throw two hundred bucks in a card for you."

Two hundred bucks.

I hadn’t bought a piece of clothing that cost more than fifty dollars in six years. Chester blew through my monthly remittances in a weekend.

And that was his exact valuation of my entire existence. Two hundred bucks.

"Chester's right. Stop being so bitter, making it sound like we’re holding a gun to your head," my father barked, his voice rising. "It’s supposed to be a happy night. Wipe that miserable look off your face. What is Madison gonna think of this family?"

My mother immediately chimed in. "Exactly! Your brother finally brings home a decent girl, and you're trying to ruin it. If you scare her off, are you going to take responsibility for ruining his life?"

Chester wrapped his arm around Madison’s waist and let out a booming laugh. "Yeah, Hazel. Let’s just drop it until tomorrow. Don’t kill the vibe."

They stood there, a united front, perfectly calibrated in their emotional warfare.

I looked at them, rotating through their roles of aggressor, pacifier, and victim. It was almost comical. Six years away, and their choreography had only gotten better.

"I said what I said. I am not marrying him. And you are going to give me my money back."

My father’s face hardened into a scowl. "You think you're grown now? You think you run things?"

"It’s not about who runs things. It’s about the fact that you do not own me, and you do not get to sell me."

Chester threw his hands up in theatrical annoyance. "Jesus, Hazel, could you stop being so dramatic? You're a factory worker. You don't get to make demands. You are literally the only person in this family who causes problems."

"I cause problems?" I locked eyes with him. "How many classes did you fail in your four years of college, Chester? How did you actually graduate?"

His smile slipped.

"Every finals week, crying to Mom on the phone that you were broke, that you needed to 'bribe' your professors by taking them out to expensive dinners to pass. Where do you think that money came from?"

Chester’s face flushed scarlet.

"It came out of my bleeding fingers," I whispered.

"You're full of shit!" Chester yelled.

My father lunged forward, jabbing a thick, calloused finger hard against my forehead. "You shut your damn mouth! Is that how you speak to your brother? Have you got no respect?"

"Where was his respect for me?"

My father’s face turned a mottled, furious purple. He kicked the wooden stool by my feet, sending it crashing into the cabinets.

"You disrespectful little bitch!"

As the stool clattered against the wood, my mother started screeching. "Ungrateful! You ungrateful brat! We raised you, put food in your mouth, and for what? For nothing!"

Chester, his smugness fully restored, guided Madison back toward the living room. He tossed a look over his shoulder. "If you don't wanna marry him, fine. Earl's gonna be here in ten minutes. You can tell him to his face."

I froze. "What?"

My mother refused to look at me. My father lit another cigarette and stared at the floor.

Three minutes later, the gravel driveway crunched beneath the heavy tires of a pickup truck. Earl Jenkins had arrived.

He stood in the doorway holding a cheap bottle of bourbon and a wilted bouquet from a gas station. He smiled, his lips pulling back over a row of yellowed, rotting teeth.

My mother’s face instantly transformed. She beamed, practically shoving past me to welcome him inside, her voice dripping with honey. My father stood up, clapping Earl on the back like an old war buddy.

My mother grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin, and shoved me down onto the sagging living room sofa. She forced me to sit right next to Earl.

He smelled like stale sweat, motor oil, and cheap tobacco. It made my stomach churn.

He turned his head slowly, his bloodshot eyes dragging down my face, lingering deliberately on my chest.

Sitting across from us, my mother smiled sweetly at Earl. Then, reaching around the back of the sofa, she grabbed a fistful of the flesh on my lower back and twisted violently.

"Smile," she hissed through her teeth, her voice so low only I could hear. "If you say one wrong word to him, I swear to God I will break your legs."