Chapter 7: A Story Without a Hero

I announced, on my own, that I was breaking off with Grandma and Dad. I refused to sit at the dinner table, refused to answer when they called my name.

I ignored them, refused to be with them. I kept to myself, my room my only refuge.

At preschool, I was alone, but Bella was popular—she was sweet-talking and quickly became the teachers’ favorite. The other kids followed her around like ducklings.

But I wasn’t jealous. Their laughter felt hollow to me.

I thought I was special. I could see the words, the invisible script. No one else seemed to notice.

I could see the hero and heroine, see the manipulative supporting character—she couldn’t see any of it. I wondered what it was like to be so blissfully unaware.

Our worlds were different. She was playing pretend, while I was fighting to survive.

Besides, I didn’t care for love that you have to beg for. I promised myself I'd never beg for affection.

At home, the only person I was willing to be close to was Nanny Linda. Her smile was the only thing that felt real.

She took over Mom’s role—telling me stories, comforting me, caring about my feelings, and secretly tucking me in at night. She’d sneak me Oreos and let me stay up late watching old Disney movies on her tablet.

When I napped, she’d laugh at her phone. Sometimes the sound would wake me, and I’d catch her wiping tears from her eyes.

When I woke up, I’d quietly hide behind her to see what she was reading. She always tried to hide the screen, but my curiosity was stronger than her caution.

[Cancel tomorrow’s engagement party. Don’t worry about me.] [I never said break up. You can’t just walk away.]

By then, I could already read some words, so I guessed what it meant. The words were heavy, full of drama and longing.

In that moment, I felt like I’d found a treasure. It was a secret window into another world.

It was just like Dad and Mom’s story. The same twists, the same heartbreaks.

“Read it to me,” I said. My voice was eager, insistent.

Nanny Linda was startled. “Abby, you’re awake?”

“Read it to me.” I was stubborn. I folded my arms, daring her to refuse.

Nanny Linda tried to persuade me otherwise. She shook her head, nervous.

But I went on a hunger strike. I crossed my arms, pushing my plate away at dinner.

Nanny Linda was distressed. She whispered, “This is our secret, don’t tell anyone.” She glanced over her shoulder, making sure no one was listening.

I agreed. My lips were sealed.

From then on, my bedtime stories on the surface were ‘Counting Stars’, ‘The Girl Who Drank the Moon’…

But in reality, they were ‘The Rise of the Sweetheart’, ‘CEO Scott’s Little Sweetheart’…

I listened to story after story. I memorized every trope, every twist.

I found they all had the same core: the male lead is powerful, misunderstands the female lead, hurts her, then repents and wins her back. The pattern was always the same, as if life itself had a formula.

I seemed to see Mom’s future fate. I pictured her forgiving Dad, starting over. It made me sick.

She and Dad might be entangled like this too. I didn't want that for her.

But as her daughter, I didn’t feel hope—only the despair of the present. The stories made me angry, not comforted.

Not long after, Mom came back. Her hair was limp, her eyes ringed red.

She looked gloomy, her smile forced. She moved like she was sleepwalking.

Faced with Grandma’s sarcasm, Mom just responded numbly, silent. She stared at the floor, her fists clenched.

Later, I learned that Dad had ruined Mom’s job prospects—every time she found a new job, he would sabotage it. He made calls, spread rumors, anything to keep her trapped.

To avoid dragging others down, Mom could only return obediently. She tucked her pride away, pretending nothing was wrong.

And the divorce agreement had long since been tossed in the trash by Dad. He made it clear she had no escape.

Mom was like a beast trapped in a cage—no one would respect such a beast. Even her dignity had been stripped away.

When she saw me, Mom hugged me tightly. She squeezed me so hard I could barely breathe, his voice cracking on every word.

“Abby, are you okay?” Her voice was brittle.

“I’m fine, Mom. Are you okay?” I asked, searching her face for the truth.

“I’m fine too.” She lied, and we both knew it.

Mom, you’re lying. I wanted to say it, but I just held her tighter.

You’re clearly not okay. I could see the pain in your eyes, the way you flinched at every sound.

I smelled the sadness on you, your whole body heavy with despair. Even your hugs felt different—desperate, not safe.

I solemnly handed Mom a book about runaway wives. I’d circled pages, highlighted lines. I hoped she’d see my secret plea.

I’d finally found it—I thought some of the methods in it might help her. I pointed out passages, hoping she'd listen.

Mom read it and couldn’t help laughing, then cried as she laughed. Her tears soaked the pages.

“Abby, you’re worried about Mom? Sorry, I made you worry.” She cupped my face, her hands shaking.

I wanted to comfort her—no, I just wanted her to be happy. I would have given anything to see her smile again.

But then the door opened and Dad came in. The room froze, the air thick with tension.

His eyes landed right on the book. His lips pressed into a hard line.

“Lisa, you let the child read this kind of book?” His voice was low, warning.