I found myself inside a story, tasked with saving my mother from domestic abuse, only to face her relentless disdain because I resembled my father. When I shielded her from my father’s blows, she pushed me away. “You’re disgusting with your fake concern,” she’d hiss. I worked tirelessly to ensure she could live comfortably, yet she lounged through book clubs without care. “If it weren’t for having you, I wouldn’t have ended up like this. Your hard work is what you owe me.” One day, the system informed me I could go home. I stopped sacrificing for her and nagging her to take care of herself. That’s when she began to panic. Content “They’re saying Felicity Archer is repeating her senior year for the third time! What’s the point? That girl’s a lost cause!” “And her mom? I can’t figure her out either. She’s got such a brilliant, hardworking younger daughter but insists on pampering the older one. How many years has she wasted babysitting her through school?” News of my sister Felicity repeating her senior year spread like wildfire through Oakwood Subdivision, where gossip was practically the local pastime. Everyone knew Felicity was good at drinking, fighting, and making trouble—anything but schoolwork. But my mom was stubborn. No matter how many years it took, Felicity had to get into an Ivy League school. Why? Because I, Savannah Harper, already had. Felicity was my mom’s daughter from her first marriage. Her father, George Archer, had passed away from an illness, and my mom remarried my dad, Thomas Harper. Then I came along. The difference between Felicity and me couldn’t be more obvious. Felicity was the diamond, and I was the grass beneath her feet. But my dad didn’t treat her well. He was an abusive, alcoholic wreck. No matter how much I tried to protect Felicity, standing between her and the violence, she still hated me. In her eyes, my blood—his blood—made me just like him. I couldn’t measure up to even a fraction of her in my mom’s eyes. When I got home from my job at Uncle Jerry’s Smokehouse, the smell of BBQ clung to me like a second skin. When I walked through the door, my mom sprayed air freshener at me, scrunching her nose. “Why do you always have to make things worse? Out of all the places to work, you pick the smokiest one. Can’t you learn from Felicity and take care of your appearance?” I raised my arms without a word, letting her do her thing. She seemed to have forgotten everything I’d done since she divorced my dad—her depression, Felicity’s constant brawls. I’d lost countless part-time jobs running around trying to fix their lives. Only Uncle Jerry was kind enough to keep me on. Not only was I paying for our living expenses, but I was also covering for Felicity’s constant messes. This time, I was scrambling because rent was due soon. I scrubbed my skin raw in the shower, hoping to wash away the smoky smell. When we first moved here, neighbors praised my mom for raising two kids so well. They called her strong and independent. But behind her back, they whispered about me, the skinny one. “She should give that one away, sell her even. Wouldn’t drag the family down.” But the one earning money? That was me. The one keeping the family afloat? Also me. The one who took the hits when my dad returned, fists flying? Still me. When I first arrived in this world, my mom was kind. She’d sing me lullabies and sneak me food. But as I grew older and my features took after my father’s, her gaze twisted into something unrecognizable. Her hatred for him? It found its outlet in me. Just last night, the system informed me my dad had drunk himself to death. The threat was finally gone. I was free to leave. As water streamed down my face, I closed my eyes. Soon, this nightmare would be over. A knock interrupted my thoughts. “I heard someone saw Felicity at The Silver Oak Bar tonight. Just… cover for me, will you? I need to go get her.” “And about your birthday… well, you understand, right? That kind of place isn’t safe…” I dried my face, catching my calm reflection in the mirror. “Take care of yourself,” I replied evenly. The silhouette outside the door froze.
“You’ve grown up, Savannah.” Yeah, I used to argue with her. Plead with her to stop sacrificing herself for Felicity. But now? I felt nothing. I slowly dressed, stepped out, and walked past my mom into the kitchen. It’s time to make some pancakes for myself. It was funny. My birthday was the same as my real-life one. We could celebrate. My mom followed me, hesitated, then spoke. “Careful not to burn yourself.” I nodded indifferently. I was here because of a car accident. The Taskkeeper Program told me if I completed my mission, I could wake up again. I couldn’t bear losing my real family, so I agreed. When I arrived, Savannah Harper was seven years old. Even then, she knew how to cook and clean like it was muscle memory—skills that passed on to me. I went from the pampered Gabrielle Hackett to Savannah, who could chop vegetables blindfolded and endure beatings without crying. But that simple “be careful”… That was the first time I’d heard those words from her in over a decade. My mom left in a hurry, forgetting her purse. When she came back and saw me eating, she froze. Ignoring her, I continued. She finally spoke through gritted teeth. “I spoke to your teacher. For Felicity, a tutoring program might help. About your paycheck…” I looked up. I’d lost count of how many times this had happened. At first, she’d made excuses, promising to save the money for me. But it always turned into new dresses for Felicity. Later, she stopped pretending, demanding I hand it over outright. And so I did—rent, groceries, even trash bags. I came home from a late shift, splashed cold water on my face more nights than I could count, and headed straight to school. Half the time, I’d fall asleep in class, earning detention notices my mom ignored. The day she told my teacher, “I don’t care about that kid. Do whatever you want with her,” I copied lines until 4 a.m. That shift cost me my third job. Returning home, the fridge was empty as always. Not even leftovers. Every dollar I handed over ended up on Felicity—her new shoes, her shiny hair clips. At first, I protested. Now, I was numb. “Because you have his blood!” she’d scream. “Everything you do, you owe me!” I stood, staring into her tired, lined face. Before she could speak, I pulled out a small bundle from my pocket—all the money I had left. It didn’t matter. I couldn’t take it back to the real world anyway. I washed my dishes and left her stunned in the kitchen, unsure what to do.
After washing the dishes, I turned to find my mom still staring at me. Confused, I asked, “If you don’t leave now, Felicity will sneak off again.” She blinked as if snapping out of a daze, her brow furrowing. “Savannah Harper, are you doing this to spite me?” There was a time when I might have been. I used to argue with her, pleading for her to wake up. I’d tell her Felicity was an adult who needed to take responsibility for herself. “It’s not a parent’s job to shield their child from every mistake,” I’d say. “You’re only pushing her further away. Some lessons, she’ll have to learn the hard way.” But she’d fly into a rage, grabbing whatever was nearby to hit me with. “Savannah, you’re just jealous of your sister!” she’d scream. “You’re so twisted with envy I don’t even know how you turned out like this!” Over time, the whispers from neighbors and relatives grew louder. “She’s just a jealous, bitter child,” they’d say. During holidays, they’d quietly tell my mom, “Stop being so nice. You should send her away. It’s better for everyone.” But I was the family’s breadwinner. She’d never send me away, no matter how much she wanted to. And now, when I finally kept quiet, I was still in the wrong. I shook my head, denying her accusation. Her frustration boiled over. She slammed her hand on the table. “If you hadn’t gotten sick during Felicity’s SATs, she wouldn’t have been so worried she missed the test!” “You owe her so much. What’s wrong with making it up to her?” I couldn’t help but laugh. This argument had become a broken record, played too many times for me to muster anger. Felicity missing her SATs was my fault. Felicity dating troublemakers? My fault for being a bad influence. Felicity sneaking off to bars? My fault for being too annoying at home. Everything was my fault. The truth? She overslept the morning of her SATs. I had been delirious with a fever so high I couldn’t move, begging her to bring me a glass of water. The test had already started when she finally came to check on me. And her dating history? Her so-called boyfriend was a notorious delinquent at school. I overheard her bragging to friends about how being with him made every girl step aside for her. As for the bars, I was too busy juggling work and school to be in her way. But no matter how often I explained, my mom refused to listen, drowning me with blame. Honestly, I could understand. After two failed marriages, she needed someone to focus her anger on. But I was tired. I’m too tired to defend myself anymore. I met her gaze evenly. “Felicity missed the SATs because she overslept. She barely even attended class. Do you think she’d have done well even if she showed up?” Years ago, Felicity’s teachers constantly called my mom in for meetings. Afterward, she sat on the couch, staring into space. I’d try to comfort her, holding her hand. She’d sigh, “Savannah, just try to make things easier for me, okay?” So, I worked even harder—studying as fiercely as I worked to earn money. I soaked up knowledge like a sponge, determined to grow beyond my circumstances. When I handed her my college acceptance letter, I expected pride. Instead, she looked at me with resentment I didn’t understand. “Felicity doesn’t have a future like this. Why should you?” She only stopped short of tearing it up because I was sobbing and begging her not to. Even then, she made it clear she wouldn’t support me going. All I had wanted was a simple “well done.” Her scales had tipped so far in Felicity’s favor that not even a grain of recognition was left for me. She blinked, startled by my directness. Before she could speak again, I walked into my room, grabbed a stack of tutoring program pamphlets, and handed them to her. “These look good. You should check them out.” Then I ushered her toward the door. She clung to the frame, her fingers turning white. “I’ll make you a roast chicken for dinner when I return, okay? For your birthday.”
I’d heard promises like that more times than I could count. “Score in the top ten, and I’ll get you that doll.” “When Felicity’s tired of her dresses, you can have them.” “After we return from the store, I’ll bring you some candy.” At first, I believed her. Then, I learned the truth. Empty words to soothe a child. But it didn’t matter. I was going home soon. With thoughts of my real family, my eyes stung with tears as I fell asleep. The following day, I went to take out the trash. Voices drifted from the street. “My son didn’t come home again last night,” one neighbor said. “I called him, and he said that troublemaker from the Harper house got into another fight at the bar. A bunch of them caused a stir at the police station!” “Had him working overtime cleaning up the mess,” she continued. “If I were Savannah’s mom, I’d have kicked her out ages ago. But Marilyn spoils her rotten.” “Marilyn even apologized for her last night! She was on her knees, begging the other party for forgiveness. And that girl just ran off again!” “Can you imagine? What a shame.” Ms. Clara nudged Ms. Nora’s arm when she noticed me. “You shouldn’t be saying this in front of her.” But Ms. Nora waved her off. “What does it matter? Everyone knows the Harper kids. One’s a troublemaker, and the other’s a quiet little doormat.” They weren’t entirely wrong. I wasn’t always this quiet. When I laughed, Mom called me annoying and threw things at me to shut me up. When I cried, she said I was bringing bad vibes into the house. Over time, I learned to be silent—a wooden doll that didn’t cry or laugh. Standing by the trash cans, I scuffed circles into the dirt with my toe, thinking. Then, without a word, I turned and walked away. Behind me, someone muttered, “There goes that little fool, off to bail her mom out again.” “She’s a good kid, though. Maybe life would be easier for her on her own.” But I wasn’t going to the police station. I went home. I gathered my uniform from Uncle Jerry’s Smokehouse off the line, neatly folded and clean with the scent of sunlight. I packed it carefully into a bag with a handwritten thank-you note and some candies—the best gift I could manage. Walking to the smokehouse, I found Mr. Jerry soaking in the sun by the door. With my first genuine smile in years, I handed him the bag. “Mr. Jerry, thank you for everything.” He ruffled my hair. “You’re a good kid, Savannah. I’m sure the road ahead will be smooth for you.” I nodded firmly. Behind me, I heard someone call softly, “Savannah?”
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