1. Isabella Viana
1040 Words
My feet ached after hours of standing, cleaning hotel rooms before classes, and my backpack felt twice as heavy with books I barely had time to open. I was so exhausted that even breathing seemed to take extra effort.
With a sigh, I walked to the bus stop, where a small crowd of equally drained people had gathered. The city’s chaotic traffic showed no mercy, and the bus I needed was always late—later than it should’ve been.
While I waited, I set my backpack down and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to convince myself I still had enough energy for the nearly hour-long ride home.
When the bus finally arrived, I could barely make it up the steps. My body was begging for rest, but my mind knew the day wasn’t over yet. I found a seat in the back, away from the broken windows and torn upholstery, and rested my backpack on my lap. Leaning my head against the cold glass, I closed my eyes. Normally, I’d use this time to review my notes or catch up on reading, but not today.
Today, all I wanted was to sleep.
But sleep didn’t come. Instead, my thoughts began to spiral like a storm. The pile of laundry waiting for me, the dinner I still had to make for my mom and me, and that college report I had barely started. Everything seemed to revolve around one single truth: I needed to get out.
I had spent most of my life studying and preparing, holding on to the hope that one day things would change. Growing up in a dysfunctional home, where the only support you have comes from yourself, is never easy. Most of the time, I thought about giving up—about surrendering to odd jobs and paths that, deep down, I knew might pay well but would lead me somewhere dark.
I worked hard to earn a scholarship, and thanks to a teacher, I got into a college prep course. Despite the sideways glances from other students, I never let it break me. I kept fighting, always pushing myself to be better. And now, for the first time, it felt like all that effort might actually pay off. Despite everything at home, there was still a small flame of hope burning at the end of all that chaos.
I could actually change my mom’s life.
My only chance was the exchange program I had applied for with Professor Ana’s help. A position as an au pair in Spain could be our way out—our salvation. But weeks had passed with no answer, and the hope I’d been clinging to so desperately was starting to wear thin.
By the time the bus reached my neighborhood, it was already dark. I walked home, feeling the weight of my backpack—and the fear that always followed me whenever I crossed that door.
The moment I stepped inside, a sound froze my blood: a sharp crack, followed by a muffled scream.
I ran to the living room and found my mother on the floor, her hands covering her face as tears streamed down.
“Mom!” I dropped my backpack and knelt beside her. “What happened?”
She just cried, unable to speak.
“Your mother is useless!” his voice echoed behind me.
My stepfather stood there, a bottle of cachaça in one hand and a wallet stuffed with money in the other. His eyes were red, his breath thick with alcohol.
“I do everything for this house, and this is how I’m treated?”
“You don’t do anything but destroy it!” I snapped, getting to my feet to face him. “Get out!”
He laughed—a cold, mocking sound.
“I’ll leave when I feel like it, brat. And I’m taking what’s mine.” He lifted the wallet, waving it in the air. “You’re nothing without me.”
Without another word, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoed through the fragile, empty house like a warning:
He would be back.
I rushed back to my mother, who was trembling on the floor.
“Mom, we can’t stay here anymore.” I grabbed her hands tightly. “Let’s leave. I’ll find somewhere else—anything. We just can’t stay here waiting for him to come back and make things worse.”
She shook her head, sobbing.
“No, Isa… he’ll change. He’s just upset…”
“He’s never going to change.” The words came out in a desperate whisper. “Please, Mom… for both of us.”
But her eyes never met mine. She just kept crying, too lost in her own fear to believe there was any way out.
A knot formed in my throat—a mix of anger and helplessness that threatened to suffocate me. I couldn’t stay trapped in that cycle. If she wouldn’t come with me, then I would have to go alone.
“Come on, let’s take care of this,” I said softly, trying to steady my voice.
I helped her to her feet and led her to the bathroom. I grabbed a clean towel, ran it under cold water, and gently pressed it against the cut on her face. She let out a quiet groan but didn’t protest. I carefully cleaned the dried blood and applied ointment, my chest tightening the entire time.
It was always like this—I treated the wounds while he caused new ones.
When I was done, she looked exhausted, her eyes swollen from crying.
“Try to get some rest, Mom. I’ll make dinner later,” I whispered, helping her lie down on the couch. She nodded, her fingers still trembling as she clutched the blanket I had draped over her.
I left the room in silence, my chest heavy, and went to my bedroom. I closed the door behind me and collapsed onto the bed, clutching my pillow tightly.
The sound of a notification made me jump.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. My hands trembling, I pulled it out and looked at the lock screen.
An email notification.
The email I had been dreaming of.
My acceptance.
- Writer
