Framed and Forsaken

She started cursing, “You worthless Ellie, born with a lady’s body but the luck of a servant. Don’t you see we’re all back? Why aren’t you up making dinner?”

Her words were sharp as broken glass. I could smell the cigarette smoke on her breath, see the scowl etched into her face.

Dad and Grandma looked furious.

Their eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight. I could feel their anger radiating across the room, as if my very existence offended them.

I stood up, head spinning. “I don’t want to cook.”

My voice was steadier than I felt. I braced myself, waiting for the blowback.

A bunch of grown adults, and they wanted a heatstruck kid to cook for them? Seriously?

The absurdity of it made me want to laugh. Here I was, barely able to stand, and they expected me to play housemaid.

My dad, Walter Foster, reached out to hit me. “You brat, you don’t want to cook? You’re getting mouthy! I’ll show you what happens.”

His hand was rough, calloused from years of farm work. I flinched but stood my ground, refusing to shrink away this time. Not this time.

I forced myself outside. I knew better than to push my luck.

I knew when to pick my battles. Sometimes, survival meant retreat. But I wouldn’t stay down for long.

But if they wanted my cooking, I’d give it to them.

A flicker of mischief sparked in my chest. If they wanted a show, I’d give them one they’d never forget. Fine. Let’s see how they like it.

So I ‘accidentally’ set fire to the firewood pile behind the house. Oops.

I watched the flames leap up, heat licking at my face. The crackle was oddly satisfying—a little chaos to shake things up.

Thankfully, I ran to the neighbors for help, so the house was saved.

I made sure to shout loud enough for the whole street to hear. Neighbors came running, buckets in hand, dousing the flames before they spread.

Of course, I didn’t escape a beating. But I made sure my cries echoed down Maple Street.

Every scream was a signal flare. Let them hear. I wanted everyone to hear, to see what went on behind closed doors.

It was loud enough that Mr. Donaldson, the town councilman, came running.

He was out of breath, tie askew, but his eyes were sharp. He’d always had a soft spot for kids in trouble.

He said, “Walter, this is going too far. You can’t beat a child like that.”

His voice cut through the chaos, steady and sure. For the first time, I saw my father hesitate.

Walter said, “Mr. Donaldson, she’s my kid, I’ll discipline her how I see fit…”

His bravado was slipping, but he still puffed out his chest, clinging to old habits. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

I put on my best stubborn act, crying with snot and tears, “I’m not your daughter! Why are you hitting me? When my mom comes back, she’ll let you have it, wuwuwu…”

I let the tears flow, making sure everyone saw just how wrong things were in our house. If pity was all I could get, I’d use it. Whatever it took.

Then I knelt to my mom. “Aunt, Grandma, Aunt Linda, I was wrong, please talk to Uncle, don’t let him hit me. I just wanted to make you a hot meal.”

My voice trembled, but I made sure it carried. I wanted every neighbor to remember this moment. Let them remember.

Neighbors chimed in, “Look, the girl meant well.”

Mrs. Harper shook her head, muttering about how kids these days just needed a little kindness.

“She’s just a kid with a good heart.”

Someone else echoed, “Let her be, Walter. She’s been through enough.”

With everyone watching, my dad had to stop.