The next morning, we left Otis town, Oklahoma, in the quiet of dawn. The sky was pale, the world still half-asleep, and there were no speeches. No lingering glances. No goodbyes. Just three broken souls packing what little remained of our lives into bags and boxes, carrying the weight of every scar, every fear, every stolen moment as we moved. The cash that survived my father's greed and cruelty rested heavily in my hands. By the time the sun stretched its first rays across the horizon, we were already on the road.
Our destination was a city in Texas called Voyagers City. The name felt ironic, almost mocking. A journey, a passage, a chance to escape the shadows of the past, and yet the weight of those shadows still lingered, pressing against my chest.
When we arrived, everything felt different. The air was lighter, cleaner. The streets were wide and orderly. Buildings gleamed with fresh paint and new designs. People moved with a casual confidence, their faces free of suspicion and fear. Part of the money bought a modest but beautiful home. Its walls were clean, its light warm, its doors secure. For the first time in my life, I slept without flinching at every sound, without imagining threats behind every shadow.
And for six months, we found peace.
Cecilia healed in her own quiet way, stitching herself back together thread by thread. She learned to work with her hands, first as a hairdresser, learning the delicate art of combing and braiding, then as a weaver, creating patterns that flowed like memory and time stitched into cloth. I watched her often, her fingers steady, precise, and patient. Each braid, each thread, was a piece of her soul quietly repairing. Her smiles were rare, but when they came, they were real, and they were hers.
I returned to school. Fifteen now, taller, stronger, harder in ways the world could not see. I was not the smartest student, but I was known for something else. For kindness. For strength that did not demand recognition. I did not tolerate bullying, not against myself and not against anyone else. The fear that once lived inside me had burned away, replaced by a resilience I did not yet understand but carried like armor.
Then, one day, everything shifted.
I saw her in the cafeteria. Alice.
For a moment, my mind rebelled, insisting it was a trick, a memory playing cruel games. But there she was. Hair tied back, eyes scanning the room until they landed on me. Her breath caught, and mine did too.
I walked toward her slowly, heart pounding in my ears.
Hi, I said quietly, brushing my green hair back with my hand. Fancy meeting you here.
Before I could say anything else, she rushed forward, arms wrapping around me. I froze, stunned.
I missed you so much, she whispered, voice shaking. I thought something terrible happened to you after that day, after what happened between your sister and my father.
I gently pulled away, my expression hardening.
You knew, I said cautiously. You always knew what your father was doing to my sister.
She nodded slowly, guilt flooding her face.
Something inside me snapped.
I grabbed the plate of food in front of her and flung it across the table. Sauce and rice splattered across her uniform. Before anyone could react, my hand connected with her face.
You should be ashamed of yourself, I shouted. How dare you stand in front of me like nothing happened.
Gasps filled the cafeteria. Students surged forward, trying to pull us apart, but Alice raised her hand, stopping them.
It is my fault, she said loudly. Please let him speak.
Her eyes met mine, full of pain, and her voice softened.
I had no choice, she said. I helped you with food and money through my mother's shop because my father demanded it. It was the only way I could protect you. Your sister knew. She told him to do it.
My chest tightened, my heart sinking into some cold, empty pit.
At first, I hated you, Alice admitted. I hated your family. I thought you stole my father away. But when I met you, when I saw how kind you were, my perspective changed. I stopped hating you. I decided to help you instead. To protect you.
But you lied to me, I said, fists clenched, voice breaking. You used me. And because of me, my sister suffered. Because of me, we lived like that. Because of me, our father…
Tears burned my eyes, blurring my vision as my fists shook.
It is fine, she whispered, placing her hands on her chest. I am sorry I could not tell you earlier. I will always help you and your family. No matter what happens. I will pay back everything your father stole from you, even if it costs my life.
I exhaled slowly, exhaustion washing over me, a weight I had carried for years easing just slightly.
What do we do now? I asked. If you are here, then someone must have told Otis we are in this city.
He is looking for you, she said firmly. But he will not find you if you lay low. I promise.
I nodded.
I am sorry for earlier, I said quietly.
Do not sweat it, she replied, a faint smile breaking through the tension.
We laughed softly, shared addresses and phone contacts, and ordered another plate of food. By the time the crowd dispersed, whispers had faded into the background. Life moved forward again.
My mother used the remaining money to start a small business, selling goods at a mini mart in the city. She worked tirelessly, rebuilding strength, confidence, and a sense of purpose.
That night, the three of us sat at the dinner table together. No shouting. No fear. Just warm light, food, and silence that felt safe. Safe enough to breathe. Safe enough to be.
For the first time in my life, I realized something quietly powerful. We had survived. And for the first time, survival was no longer the goal. Living, it seemed, was.