MY SAVING DOOM

BREAKING POINT

The grocery bags were heavier than they should’ve been. By the time I reached Mom’s apartment, my arms ached, my shoulders screamed, and the plastic handles had carved red grooves into my fingers.

I shoved the door open with my hip, and the familiar chaos smacked me in the face. The TV blared too loudly from the living room, kids were screaming over something stupid, and the sharp tang of bleach mixed with frying oil burned my nose.

“About time,” Mom snapped before I could even set the bags down. She stood in the kitchen doorway, a dish towel slung over her shoulder, eyes narrowed like I’d just committed a crime. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting? What if we’d starved, Nanya? Do you even think about anyone besides yourself?”

The bags hit the counter with a heavy thud, the plastic crinkling as if mocking me. “It’s groceries, Mom. Not a kidney transplant.”

Her glare cut sharper than any knife. “Don’t you get smart with me. I asked you two days ago. Two! But you’re always too busy, too tired, too wrapped up in yourself. You think being the oldest gives you an excuse to neglect your family?”

My blood boiled hot in my chest. “My family? Or yours?”

The room stilled. Even the cartoon noises from the living room seemed to fade for a heartbeat. Mom froze, dish towel gripped tight in her hand.

“Don’t start,” she said, her voice low, dangerous.

But I was already past the point of holding back. “No. Let’s start. Because every time you yell at me for not being responsible, what you really mean is I’m not killing myself fast enough for kids that aren’t even mine.”

Her face went pale, then flushed red in an instant. “Don’t you dare talk about them like that. They’re your siblings.”

“Step-siblings,” I spat, the word tasting like poison on my tongue. “Let’s not pretend otherwise. I didn’t ask for them. I didn’t ask for any of this. But somehow, I’m the one paying bills, running errands, covering for you when you can’t, when none of this should be on me in the first place!”

Her eyes glistened, but her chin lifted, stubborn. “They didn’t ask for this either. They didn’t ask for their father to walk out. They didn’t ask for me to be stuck raising them on my own. And if you had half a heart, you’d see that.”

I laughed, but it came out broken, sharp. “Half a heart? You’ve been yanking mine out piece by piece since the day you remarried. Do you even remember what it was like before? When it was just you and me? When I actually mattered?”

Her mouth trembled, but she pressed it into a thin line. “You’re being selfish.”

“Selfish?” My voice cracked, loud enough to make the kids in the living room go quiet. “I gave up everything for you. College plans? Gone. My savings? Gone. My life—my entire life—has been one sacrifice after another because you needed me to ‘step up.’ And now I’m selfish because I want to breathe? Because I don’t want to drown in problems that aren’t mine?”

Tears welled in her eyes, but her voice rose like fire. “I did the best I could, Nanya. You think I wanted this life? You think I wanted to struggle, to watch men walk out on me, to beg my own daughter for help? You don’t understand what it cost me to keep you alive when you were little!”

The words hit like a slap. My throat tightened, my vision blurred. For a second, I saw not the woman in front of me, but the tired single mom who used to work two jobs just to put food on the table. And for a moment, guilt twisted sharp in my gut.

But then I remembered the weight of every burden I’d carried since. The way she leaned on me, pushed me, guilted me into playing savior while my own dreams rotted.

I shoved the groceries harder onto the counter, the sound of bottles clinking like shattering glass between us. “You know what, Mom? I can’t do this anymore.”

“Run away then!” she snapped, her tears turning bitter. “That’s all you ever do—run. But don’t come back crying when the world shows you it’s not as forgiving as I am.”

Her words stung, but I couldn’t stay in that kitchen another second. My chest felt too tight, my wrist throbbed like it was on fire beneath my sleeve, and my own voice trembled as I whispered, “Maybe the world wouldn’t be this hard if home wasn’t worse.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

I turned and walked out, the door slamming behind me with a finality that made my whole body shake.

Outside, the cool air hit my face, and that was all it took for the dam to break. I staggered down the steps and collapsed against the railing, burying my face in my hands.

The tears came hot, unstoppable. Years of carrying everyone’s weight, years of being the dependable one, years of wanting something more but never getting it — all of it spilled out of me.

Dad’s face flickered in my mind, blurry and distant. He was still alive somewhere, but he may as well have been a ghost. Calls ignored, promises broken, birthdays forgotten. Every time I tried to reach him, it was the same silence. I hated him for it. I hated that his absence had left me clinging to a mother who only knew how to pile more onto me.

And under all that hate, under all that grief, was the memory I couldn’t shake.

Damian.

The storm in his eyes. The heat of his mouth. The way he’d made me feel like I was both cursed and chosen in the same breath.

It had been over a week since I’d last seen him, and I told myself I was glad. That distance was safer. That forgetting him was survival.

But even through my tears, I knew the truth.

I missed him.

I've never met any guy who got into my head the way Damian did.

Yea

h, you guessed right, I'm still passing through same dangerous road hoping to run into him again...