No Refund On My Existence Chapter 2

I dragged my suitcase two long, frozen blocks down the street.

My face was numb from the biting wind when I finally found a small diner with a handwritten sign: Dishwasher Wanted.

On Christmas Eve, I ate a pack of the cheapest ramen, boiled in an electric kettle in the cramped, airless storage room that served as my break area.

As the crushing loneliness washed over me, my mother called. I hesitated but ultimately answered.

"Paige? Where are you? Did you eat a holiday dinner?"

I stared at the swirling, oily surface of the ramen. My throat seized up. "I'm eating now," I managed, dryly.

"Oh." She paused, seemingly unsure how to proceed, before her conversation naturally steered back to the center of her universe. "Your sister was so happy today. We had a huge seafood feast for dinner—King Crab, lobster, abalone..."

She stopped again, as if remembering I was on the other end, and stiffly changed the subject. "You haven’t been running around, have you? It's chaos outside during the holidays. Be safe."

I clenched my phone, my knuckles white. A sudden, sharp wave of intense grievance and anger surged through me. The tears I’d held back all day finally spilled over.

I forced myself to speak past the sudden, painful lump in my throat. "Do you truly care how I'm doing, where I'm staying, or what I'm eating?"

The other end of the line went silent for a second. Then, my mother’s voice shot back, shrill and wounded. "Paige Ellison! I am your mother! How dare you speak to me like that? I’m worried about you, and this is how you repay me? You ingrate! You're just like your father! We gave birth to you, we raised you..."

I hung up, lifted my chin, and fought hard not to let the tears fall again.

When the winter break ended, I returned to the academy with the couple thousand dollars I’d earned washing dishes.

On the first day of the new semester, someone tagged me in the group.

My Dad: [@PaigeEllison Heard you made a couple thousand dollars working? Great. You can handle your own living expenses from now on.]

My mom instantly agreed, the perfect partner in crime: [Agreed. Harper's piano lessons are expensive this semester. It’s good you can be self-sufficient.]

I stared at those two lines of text. My chest felt like it had been slammed by a heavy weight—a brief, suffocating pain, followed by absolute numbness.

From that day on, I became a machine. I studied relentlessly. Every hour was spent reviewing, and I signed up for every single academic competition I could find. My friends and teachers, noticing my plight, often helped me out with meals or small necessities.

By the time of the final senior year mock exam, my name was posted on the Honors Board—Top 20 in the entire class.

The day grades were released, my mother tagged me in the chat. [Heard your mock results were pretty good?]

My father immediately chimed in. [Really Top 20? Your college application needs to be for Finance or Computer Science. That’s where the real money is.]

After two years, they were finally, collaboratively, planning my future. I felt a wave of nausea, an impulse to vomit right there.

I typed a single, cold word in reply: [Fine.]

My phone exploded with notifications.

My Mom: [What is that attitude? You think you're hot stuff just because of one test? Ingrate!]

My Dad: [With that disposition, no wonder we always preferred Harper! You have absolutely no respect!]

I was about to fire back one of my own when a new message popped up. It was my mother. I could practically hear the calculator clicking in her mind. Her text dripped with a chilling greed:

[How much did we spend raising you to eighteen? You will pay it all back when you get a job!]

My father immediately put a price tag on me:

[At least forty-five thousand dollars. Every penny is due.]

[We invested too much in you to just give it away!]

Forty-five thousand. Staring at the number, a wave of profound coldness washed over me, starting at my feet and shooting straight to my head.

They had kept a ledger. Every dollar spent on me had been recorded as a debt. For Harper, it was always open-handed, no-questions-asked generosity.

Utterly and completely disillusioned, I calmly exited the group chat.

Then, I blocked and deleted "Dad," "Mom," and "Sister."

When I finished, a lightness spread through my body.