A Transactional Mom: I Collect Payment Ten Years Later

The day I was discharged, Mom dropped me off at the bus stop and took a cab home herself.

Her reasoning was simple. She'd already fronted me 600 dollars, so she wasn't about to waste another 20 dollars on a cab for me.

I clutched the only two dollars I had in my pocket and took the hour-long bus ride home.

When I pushed open the door, my brother, Arnold Baird—who was two years younger than me—was strutting around the living room in a brand-new pair of limited-edition Adidas sneakers.

"Emily, check these out. Pretty cool, right? They cost over 200 dollars!" he beamed, radiating pride.

I looked at his sneakers, then down at my own canvas sneakers—washed pale, the soles nearly worn through—and said nothing. My shoes were "luxury goods" I'd bought for 20 dollars with money saved from three months of collecting junk.

Mom poked her head out of the kitchen. When she saw me, her face immediately soured.

"Finally, you're back. I thought you'd died in the hospital. Hurry up—the dishes in the sink are piled sky-high. Wash them, and I'll credit you two dollars. Consider it an investment in your college tuition."

As she spoke, her gaze softened as it landed on Arnold. "You look so handsome in those shoes—just like a celebrity. Come on, I'm taking you to KFC."

Arnold cheered. As he passed me, he deliberately stepped on my foot.

"What are you looking at, you broke loser?" he muttered under his breath.

I looked down at the shoeprint on my shoe, my fists clenching slowly.

This wasn't new. This contrast in treatment had existed for as long as I could remember.

In third grade, a girl named Lily Dawson wore a pink princess dress with lace trim. I was so envious it physically ached. When I got home, I tugged on Mom's sleeve and begged her for an entire evening to buy me one.

She didn't even look away from the TV. "You want it? Fine. That dress costs 80 dollars. Save up for it yourself."

I pulled out my cookie-tin piggy bank and dumped out the change. After counting it three times, it totaled just 26 dollars and 50 cents. Every cent was hard-earned money I'd made by doing chores for the family—money from buying cooking oil, scrubbing the toilet, and taking out the trash.

"It's not enough," Mom said. "If you want the dress, sweep the floor. I'll credit you 50 cents. When you've saved enough, you can buy it."

For that dress, I worked like a girl possessed. I grabbed every chore I could find after school.

In the winter, the tap water felt like shards of ice. My hands developed chilblains. They were red, swollen, and covered in tiny cracks that stung the moment they got wet. When Mom saw them, she simply tossed a cheap jar of Vaseline at me.

"Put this on. Don't let it stop you from working. Since you look so pitiful, I'll raise tonight's dishwashing credit to 2 dollars and 50 cents."

At the time, that extra 50 cents felt like a miracle.

It took me a full four months to save those 80 dollars. When I excitedly presented the pile of change to Mom, she counted it and frowned.

"It's too cold for a dress now. Buying one would be a waste of money. I'll keep this for you for now; we'll put it toward your textbook fees for next semester."

That winter, I wore my old padded coat with frayed cuffs while Arnold rolled around in the snow in a brand-new puffer jacket.

I finally worked up the courage to ask, "Mom, why doesn't Arnold have to do chores to get new clothes?"

While brushing the snow off Arnold's jacket, she answered matter-of-factly, "He's your little brother, and he's a boy. One day, he'll have to lead this family. He's different from you."

Back then, I didn't understand what "different" meant. I just thought I hadn't worked hard enough to earn that kind of love.

Now, I understood. To Mom, Arnold was family and an investment. I, on the other hand, was an outsider, a tool to be used for labor.

I walked into the kitchen and stared at the mountain of greasy dishes. Without a word, I plunged my hands into the bone-chilling water.

After I finished, I took out the small ledger hidden in my pocket and made a note.

"Senior year. Fainted and hospitalized.

"Owe Mom 600 dollars.

"Goal: Escape.

"Step One: Get into the farthest college possible."