My Life

I wake up like I do every morning. For some people, having a family is a source of joy — coming home to a kiss, a hug, a "Congratulations" when you do something right. That's not how it works for me.

For as long as I can remember, I've never been shown affection. They've always made it clear that I was a mistake, something that shouldn't have come into this world, that shouldn't have been born. But they've squeezed every drop of use out of that mistake.

I went to school like any other kid. I have records, papers, good grades — but I only made it through high school. They wouldn't let me go further. Since I was little, my mother taught me to do everything around the house. Always cleaning, organizing. Anything out of place, anything I didn't get done — punishment. No food, no going out, not even time to study.

Today I'm nineteen years old, and I know the routine by heart. Clean, organize. Every assignment from my brother's college courses — I'm the one who does them. He gets good grades because of me, and I always hear my mother say:

"You want an education? Your brother gives you the chance."

They just deny the fact that he passes because of me. I always scored nines and tens; he scraped by with sixes and got praised. In my case, they said I copied, that it wasn't an achievement. They always find something wrong with what I do, and I've gotten used to it.

My name is Ambar Acosta. I'm nineteen years old — a person who would've preferred to have no family at all and grow up alone rather than end up with the one I got.

I get up like every morning. Breakfast is ready and on the table. I watch them come downstairs — Estela, my mother; Norberto, my father; and Pablo, my brother.

"I hope breakfast tastes decent," Estela said.

"Don't expect too much from the idiot," Norberto said.

"Let's try it," Estela said.

All three took a bite. My mother and father spat it out. The only one who swallowed was Pablo. He and I used to be close — he always helped me — until he stopped. He doesn't treat me badly, but his indifference hurts.

"You're an idiot. You can't do anything right," Estela said. "I hope the house is at least clean when we get back."

"I want lunch to be better," Norberto said. "The house spotless. And you're not allowed to eat. If I find out you've eaten, you know what happens."

Of course I know. Beatings. Belt strikes. Locked in the attic — which is how I became claustrophobic. Pablo moved toward me, but my mother stopped him.

"I saw a paper on your nightstand," Estela told him. "Have her do it."

Pablo looked at me, sighed, and nodded.

"It's on my nightstand," he said. "Do it for me. Make sure it's good — you know the drill."

He left without another word, along with my mother. Off to go shopping, to eat — as if that were possible for me. I put the laundry in the machine, washed the breakfast dishes. This is my life. It's always the same. Everything I do is wrong, and I've come to believe it myself. The floors, the furniture — everything has to look perfect and shine. I brought Pablo's assignment to the table and worked on it while I cooked.

I have to match his handwriting. No one can know I do his work. According to my mother, women should only do this kind of thing, and besides, her son is an example. She always tells me:

"You want to study? Your brother helps you by letting you do his assignments so you can feel useful. He doesn't actually need you."

The truth is different. Without me, he wouldn't have even gotten into college. Once, because I was in a rush, I didn't copy his handwriting. The professor caught it and he failed. My punishment was no food, beatings, locked away. It's always the same. But after so much practice, his handwriting comes to me naturally now.

I finished his assignment and the cooking just in time. The three of them arrived — my father from work, my brother and mother from their shopping. Pablo walked to the table and picked up his paper.

"Good job," he said with a smile.

"Was this sitting here?" Norberto said, pointing at the pages.

"I didn't have time to put it away. I was cooking and—"

A slap silenced me. My father struck me hard enough to split my lip. My mother just smiled. My father nodded.

"You're an ungrateful, irresponsible brat," Estela said. "He lets you help him, and this is how you repay him."

"Leave her alone, Mom," Pablo said. "She's not worth the trouble."

"This food better be good," Norberto said.

All three tasted it. I never sit at the table or eat with them. I have to wait for permission to eat — after they've had their fill, sitting in a corner of the kitchen with whatever scraps they leave behind. Nothing more is allowed. Norberto savored the food, searching for a flaw. He seemed to find one, because he spat it out.

"It's—" Pablo started, giving me a small smile that my father made him drop.

"Needs salt," Norberto said.

"Seasoning. This is disgusting," Estela said.

"You're such an idiot!" Norberto said.

He threw the plate at me, and it left an angry red welt on my right arm. I was burned.

"You can't do anything right, stupid," Norberto said.

"As punishment, you'll clean the basement," Estela said.

"No... not the basement."

Norberto grabbed me by the hair and dragged me down the stairs. He shoved me inside and tossed me a rag.

"You'll clean this basement with that rag," he said. "I want it spotless, or your punishment will be worse next time."

He left without another word and locked the door behind him. I hate the basement. It's closed in like the attic. I feel like the air is running out, like the walls are closing in, like everything is going dark. But I have to obey. So I just started cleaning.

I don't know what time it is. The basement is gleaming. The door opened — Estela stood there.

"You did a good job, stupid. Here."

She threw a bag at me. Inside was a dress.

"For me?"

"We have guests tonight. You're off the hook for cooking — you're so bad at it we'd rather buy. Tonight you'll be our daughter. Decent, refined, well-behaved. You won't speak unless spoken to. You'll dress properly and make yourself presentable. You'll attend to the guests. Afterward, you'll clean everything up. And if you misbehave, you don't sleep. Now — what do you say?"

"Yes, Mom."

"And the rest?"

"Thank you, Mom."

"Now go get yourself cleaned up. You stink."

I went upstairs to my room and started getting ready. The dress was actually nice.

I pulled my hair into a ponytail. Light makeup, but enough to cover the dark circles and the signs of neglect. My hair took a while, but it turned out decent. I looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the reflection. I'd never seen myself like this before.

"Wow — if I actually put in the effort, I look pretty."

"Too pretty," Pablo said, leaning against the doorframe.

I turned to look at him and lowered my head.

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