Second Chance

A face remembered

I can’t recall much about Carol; I was pretty young when she left us. But there's one thing I do know—I really loved her.

My mom often shared the same tale, about a little girl named Miriam, and it always played out like this:



Miriam grew up fast for a ten-year-old, and maybe that was the start of everything unraveling.

She could still vividly remember that night, three drunk guys and a girl just desperate to get some food, all she wanted was to see her mother’s smile one more time—that smile she longed to see every single day.

The details were a bit hazy to her, and everything that happened still felt jumbled and confusing, but one thing was clear: she knew she’d never be the same again.

A different memory lingered in her mind, one tied to that same night with the three men. She recognized this memory well because she had placed all her trust in that person.

In her dreams, all she could hear was her mother’s shaky voice, the woman she had believed would offer her comfort, the one she thought she could seek solace from, yet instead, added to her pain.

Her mother’s true intention was to manipulate her and improve her own life; her love was never genuine. In reality, she viewed her daughter as nothing more than a way to make money.

Her exact words that day were, "Don't tell anyone, that way you can still be useful to me".

That day, Miriam shed more tears than

ever before, promising herself she would never cry again.

“Out of the blue, Miriam gave birth after nine months. Her mom thought she was too fragile for motherhood, but it turns out she was mistaken.

Miriam was sent to her uncle, who named her baby girl Carol. However, Carol decided to follow her own journey.

There’s a part of this story that Miriam kept from her second daughter, Kourtney, but Kourtney had an inkling about Carol disappearing when she was just four years old, never to return—or at least, that’s what Kourtney believed.”



I was down on my knees, head resting on the table, and all I could hear was my phone buzzing with the endless "Hello, are you still there?" messages from the other side, lying next to me on the floor.

I really hoped it was just a joke. I prayed it was. Ever since my mom began sharing those stories with me when I was a kid, the longing to see her again has only grown stronger, and old memories of her began flooding back.

Finally, I was going to see her—the one person I had dreamed of seeing for the past 18 years. Only, it wouldn’t be the joyful reunion I had always imagined; she wouldn’t be alive.

As I grew up listening to my mother’s tales, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. I knew she was Miriam in those stories, and I often wondered just how heartbroken she must have felt when her own mother did what she did.

Everything changed when my mom sent me off to Oscar’s place so she could chase the thrill of a lavish lifestyle, dreaming of that $5,000,000 Chanel purse. In that moment, I understood a harsh truth: family loyalty runs deep. My mom had turned into the very person she used to scorn, Her mother.

I tossed my towel back into the drawer and threw on some clothes. I was on my way to see my long-lost sister’s lifeless body, so I figured I could skip the shower and my nonexistent two-hour skincare routine. A quick spritz of cheap perfume masked the fact I hadn’t freshened up, and also to avoid the ‘corpse’ scent.

I grabbed a blue purse to match my rather unfortunate vomit-green outfit. Glancing in the mirror, I hesitated, cleaning my eyes with my handkerchief. I needed to check if the mirror’s cruel reflection was as ugly as it seemed—and I dabbed at my eyes again to catch the tears before they could fall.

I left the now-empty plates from Marcus's breakfast in the sink. They might have seemed like a hodgepodge of random ingredients, but honestly, my stomach cares more about the amount than the gourmet appeal.

As I made my way to the door, a hand suddenly clasped around mine, stopping me in my tracks. I turned to find Angelina, sporting her dinosaur pajamas, looking at me with curious eyes. She had mentioned last night that Marcus had gifted them to her.

“Where are you off to so early?” she asked, her grip unwavering. “I need to see someone. Can you please let go?” I replied, struggling a bit against her iron fist hold.

“There’s a look of desperation in your eyes—are you really okay? Where are you headed?” she asked, tugging me gently back toward her, clearly not ready to let me go. After a bit of effort, I finally pried my hands free from her surprisingly powerful grip—she had the strength of the power puff girls combined.

“I have to go—it’s important, a family matter. I promise I’ll be back really soon,” I assured her, taking a step closer to the door, hoping to ease her worries.

She took a deep breath and gazed at me, saying, "Just promise me one thing. When you come back, if something tough happens, you'll open up about it. We’ll cry, we’ll vent together, blame everyone we can think of, and then we’ll end up laughing. Promise me, Kourtney, that if whatever you face becomes heavy, you won't carry it all by yourself." With that, she extended her pinky and looked at me expectantly, "Promise?"

I chuckled at her playful gesture, “This feels so childish, but…” I linked my pinky with hers, “I promise.”

“That’s adorable,” chimed a voice from behind. Angelina and I turned to see Marcus perched on the kitchen counter, observing our soap opera while absentmindedly chewing on a pen.

He stood up slowly, letting the poor, severely violated pen drop onto the counter, “Bravo, bravo! What a show!” he teased, laughing as Angelina playfully nudged him on the shoulder, “Can’t you see we were in the middle of a private girls’ moment?”

He let out a laugh and said, "I just couldn't help but peek." Smiling, I swung the door open while watching their playful bickering. It made me think about how Angelina would react if Marcus decided to end things with her, but honestly, that wasn't my biggest concern at the moment.

Glancing at the address from that mysterious number, I let out a heavy sigh.

1247 Westlake Avenue Apt. 3B CA 90026 .

It was time to see if this was just a joke or something real.

Half an hour later, in Los Angeles, California

I found myself standing in front of a door painted a shade of urine yellow that was quite unappetizing—more like a deep, uninviting hue.

I knocked with the elegance of a graceful swan, and the door creaked open, unveiling a face that I recognized all too well.

With his striking red hair and impressive muscles, he was the kind of guy you can't help but gossip about during those late-night sleepover chats.

I couldn't believe it when the realization hit me—it was the guy from the taxi!