Chapter 3 - THE RULES I MADE FOR MYSELF
I made rules because rules made fear smaller.
First rule: never let anyone know Mom was gone.
Second rule: never open the door after dark.
Third rule: eat only enough to make the food last.
Fourth rule: act normal at school.
Fifth rule: do not cry where adults can see.
That last rule failed on day nine.
My teacher, Mrs. Ellis, found me sitting in the bathroom during lunch with my knees pulled to my chest.
I told her I had a stomachache.
She asked if Mom knew.
I said yes.
That was the first lie I told to protect my mother after she left.
Not the last.
Mrs. Ellis watched me too closely after that.
She noticed my clothes repeating.
She noticed when I stopped bringing lunch.
She noticed when I took extra crackers from the cafeteria tray and slipped them into my hoodie pocket.
“Sydney,” she said one Friday, “is everything okay at home?”
“Yes.”
“Is your mom working late?”
“Yes.”
Another lie.
By then, Mom had sent five messages total.
Photos of a canal.
A hotel breakfast.
A street in Paris.
One message said:
Don’t forget trash day.
Another said:
Be independent, kiddo. Proud of you.
I stared at those words for a long time.
Proud.
I wondered if pride was supposed to feel cold.
On day twelve, the heat stopped working properly even though it was only October and not freezing yet. I wore socks to bed and slept with a hoodie over my pajamas.
On day fourteen, the last bread molded.
On day sixteen, I used coins from the junk drawer to buy two bananas and a loaf of store-brand bread from the corner market.
The cashier looked at me.
“You here alone?”
“My mom’s outside.”
Another lie.
By day eighteen, I was very good at lying.
That scared me.
Not because I wanted to be honest.
Because every lie made the house quieter.
The adult who should have protected me had left, and I was now helping her get away with it.
The person who finally broke the silence was not my teacher.
Not a neighbor.
Not even me.
It was the school cafeteria lady, Mrs. Ramos, who noticed I had started saving half my lunch in napkins.
She sat beside me one afternoon and said:
“My granddaughter does that when she’s trying to feed someone else.”
I looked down.
“I’m not feeding anyone else.”
“Then who are you saving it for?”
I couldn’t answer.
She didn’t ask again.
May you like
She simply walked me to Mrs. Ellis.
And for the first time in three weeks, an adult did not accept “I’m fine” as an answer.
