Linda taught me her grandmother’s recipe for sweet potato casserole. Robert showed me his elaborate model train setup in the basement, narrating the history of every tiny building and figure with genuine enthusiasm.
“Our son really likes you,” Linda told me while we were doing dishes after dinner. “He talks about you constantly—your work ethic, your kindness, your strength.”
“He’s pretty great, too,” I said, feeling my cheeks heat up.
“He told us a bit about your situation with your family,” she added. “I hope you don’t mind.”
I stiffened slightly.
“I just want you to know that you’re always welcome here,” she said quickly. “Holidays, random weekends, whenever. Our door is open.”
She put a warm hand on my shoulder.
“Every young person deserves to have adults in their corner. If your parents won’t be that for you, we will.”
I had to excuse myself to the bathroom so I could cry in private.
These people barely knew me, and they were offering me more support than my own family ever had.
By December, I’d been promoted to junior designer with a salary that let me move into a better apartment and actually buy groceries without checking my bank account first.
The new place was a one-bedroom in a safer neighborhood with actual insulation and a kitchen that had more than two working burners. I felt rich.
I made the dean’s list my first semester. I joined a design collective on campus.
I started dating a guy named Marcus from my economics class who made me laugh and never once made me feel like I needed to diminish myself.
I built a life that was entirely my own.
Around Thanksgiving, Kiara asked if I was going home for the holidays.
“That’s not my home anymore,” I said simply.
She didn’t push.
I spent Thanksgiving with Mrs. Chen and her family, Christmas with Marcus and his parents in Ohio. New Year’s Eve at a party with my design collective friends, watching fireworks from a rooftop, and feeling like I’d finally figured out who I was supposed to be.
My 19th birthday came and went. Marcus took me to dinner. My friends threw me a surprise party.
Grace gave me a bonus and told me I was on track to be senior designer by the time I graduated.
Everything was good. Better than good.
And then March happened.
I was at a networking event downtown—the kind of thing I used to find intimidating, but now navigated easily. I had just finished talking to a potential client about their rebrand when I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“Emma.”
I turned around, and there was Bethany. She looked different—older, obviously—but also tired. Her hair was in a messy ponytail, and she was wearing jeans and a State University sweatshirt.
She was holding a plate of sad-looking cheese cubes.
“Beth,” I said neutrally.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” she said, looking me up and down.
I was wearing a blazer and heels, carrying the leather portfolio Grace had given me for Christmas.
“You look so professional.”
“I’m here for work,” I explained. “I work at Holloway & Associates.”
Her eyes widened.
“The marketing firm? That huge company downtown?”
“It’s midsized,” I said, “but yeah.”
“But you’re still in school.”
“Part-time position. I’m a junior designer.”
Something flickered across her face.
“Wow. That’s… that’s great, Emma.”
An awkward silence stretched between us.
“Are you here for school?” I asked, more out of politeness than genuine curiosity.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m a freshman at State. I’m here because my communication professor made us come to get extra credit. I’m kind of failing his class.”
She laughed, but it sounded forced.
“College is way harder than I thought it would be.”