She Got Five Suitcase, I Got A Broken Backpack Chapter 09
“ICU?!”
Mom let out a piercing scream. Her legs gave out and she
collapsed beside the couch in the reception room.
Dad instantly forgot about grabbing my phone. He spun
around and seized Simon by the collar. “What the hell
happened?! What’s wrong with Mia?!”
“The school said… said Mia got into an argument with her
roommate and pushed her down the stairs…” Every trace of
Simon’s usual arrogant, high–and–mighty swagger had
vanished into thin air.
They had no energy left to pressure me into withdrawing.
The three of them scrambled out of the security office in a
frantic, stumbling mess and caught the first flight back home that night.
For the next two weeks, my life was blissfully, utterly quiet.
From the gossip swirling through my high school class group,
1 pieced together the full picture.
Stripped of me as her twenty–four–hour live–in servant, Mia’s
true nature–spoiled, entitled, vicious–erupted in her college
dorm. She habitually ordered her roommates to fetch her
meals and do her laundry. When they refused, she threw
screaming, floor–rolling tantrums and even secretly poured
all of her roommate’s skincare products down the toilet.
When her roommate confronted her, Mia’s princess temper
exploded. Right there in the hallway, she shoved the girl
down half a flight of stairs.
Severe concussion. Compound leg fracture. ICU.
The girl’s parents brought people with them, stormed Mia’s
dorm, smashed everything in sight, hung protest banners
across campus, and called the police.
To keep Mia out of jail, Dad practically emptied the family
savings. Nearly two million dollars in compensation—just to
barely reach a settlement.
Even so, Mia was formally censured by the university and
placed on disciplinary probation. Even more devastating-
without me to pull all–nighters doing her homework and
cramming for her exams, Mia failed every single class. She
became the laughingstock of her entire college.
In the daily chaos and collapse, they finally remembered me.
Remembered the “blood bag” who, without a word, always
took care of all the housework, kept Mia perfectly
comfortable, and never asked for anything in return.
Late Friday night, I’d just wrapped up a translation gig. A
flood of messages slipped through my call–blocking app.
Simon sent long, rambling texts:
“Tessa, your brother really knows he was wrong now.
Everything at home is a wreck. Mia cries all day. Mom and
Dad fight constantly. If only you were here…”
Mom sent over a dozen friend requests on my text app, each
verification message pleading:
“Mom misses you. I overlooked you before–all those years. I
ignored you. Can you find it in your heart to forgive Mom?
Please? Just come home for a visit, even for a little while.”
I looked at these belated declarations of “love” and felt
nothing but how utterly ridiculous they were.
They hadn’t suddenly learned how to love. They’d simply
been crushed under the weight of life without their free.
disposable crutch–and they missed it desperately.