Chapter 3: Wage Theft and Rebellion

In my last life, after I graduated, my family drained me dry and oppressed me in every way.

Every paycheck, every small victory, they found a way to take their cut. I learned to flinch at the sound of my phone ringing.

Faced with such extreme favoritism and endless scheming relatives, there’s no way I’ll stay in this family again.

I’d rather sleep in my car than keep playing their games. This was my do-over, and I wasn’t about to waste it.

Honestly, I’m desperate to get out and make my own way.

Freedom, even if it meant eating ramen noodles in a cheap studio apartment, sounded better than another day under their roof.

Because with the memories and knowledge from my previous life, I don’t even have to worry about the so-called life-changing SATs.

I already knew what was coming: which questions would trip people up, which formulas to memorize. It felt like holding the answer key in my back pocket.

After all, those tough, high-scoring test questions are all burned into my brain.

It was almost funny—while everyone else crammed, I could recite them backwards.

What I did wrong last time, I won’t repeat now. I’ll definitely get a perfect score.

This time, I’d make sure I was the one who came out on top, no matter what obstacles they threw in my way.

Plus, I’ve got plenty of project ideas lined up.

There were apps, side hustles, and investments I’d missed out on before—this time, I had a running start.

All the money-making opportunities I only realized after others had cashed in last time—this time, I can seize them before anyone else.

I could see it all laid out: the start-ups, the real estate booms, the tech trends. I wasn’t going to let anyone else steal my shot.

So when I take the SATs, I’ll step onto the first rung of the ladder and climb all the way up.

I pictured myself walking into that gymnasium, filling in the bubbles with confidence, while my classmates sweated bullets.

Of course, this rotten family won’t get a cent from me.

Not one penny—no matter how many times they called or showed up at my door.

Not in this life.

This time, my success was mine alone.

...

Even after I firmly refused, my brother wouldn’t give up.

He started pestering me at every turn, using every excuse he could think of—acting like he was worried about wasting the family’s money but really just trying to wiggle out of responsibility.

He tried to persuade me: "Dude, with my lousy grades, I can barely get into a trade school. Wouldn’t it just be a waste of money for the family to support me?"

His tone was all wounded pride, like he was the martyr in this story. But I wasn’t buying it.

But I stuck to my main excuse—"God’s will"—so he could just go to school without worrying.

I shrugged, playing it cool. “You got the straw. It’s fate. Don’t sweat it.”

My brother still wanted to argue, but my mom suddenly cut him off.

She was quick to step in, her voice sharp enough to end the conversation. “Your brother’s right. Fate can’t be changed. Since you drew the straw, just go.”

For a moment, I thought maybe she’d finally accepted it. But I knew better than to trust a sudden change of heart.

"After the SATs, let your brother go with you to college, rent a place nearby, so he can help you out."

That part made me almost laugh out loud—my brother ‘helping me out’ was a joke. It was just another way to keep me under their thumb.

At her first sentence, I was a little surprised by her sudden change of heart.

But the second sentence made me sneer inside.

I knew it was just another form of control—one more string they could pull when it suited them.

My mom’s mask almost slipped.

Her smile was just a little too forced, her eyes flicking nervously between us.

There was no point arguing about these empty promises now.

I’d heard it all before: vague assurances, pretty words that meant nothing once things got tough.

There was still more than half a month before the SATs.

Every day, the tension at home got thicker, the air stale with unspoken resentment and old anger.

She could paint as pretty a picture as she liked.

But I knew reality always crept in—peeling paint on the walls, bills piling up on the counter, arguments that started over nothing and never really ended.

But right after my mom spoke, my dad assigned me a job.

He didn’t even look at me when he said it, just kept watching the TV as if the decision was already made.

"Danny, start working at your Uncle Mike’s construction site tomorrow."

My dad’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact, like he was reading out a grocery list. I knew better than to argue.

"Since you dropped out, you have to earn money for the family."

That was always the line—every sacrifice for the good of the family. No matter how tired you were, no matter how unfair.

I didn’t object.

No sense fighting a battle I couldn’t win. Besides, I had bigger plans brewing.

First, I needed money for college, and I knew they’d never give it to me, nor would I ask.

I knew if I waited for them to help, I’d still be waiting in ten years. I’d learned that lesson the hard way.

Second, no matter how many projects I had in mind, I needed seed money, so making money was a must.

I had ideas, but dreams don’t pay bills. I’d work any job that got me closer to leaving.

Even if it was hard work, I couldn’t afford to be picky now.

I figured I could handle a few weeks of back-breaking labor. Anything was better than staying home.

Suffer for a while, enjoy a lifetime—it’s worth it.

I repeated it to myself like a prayer, hoping the pain would be worth the freedom that came after.

...

The next day, I casually said goodbye to my family, grabbed my backpack, and left home.

There was no hug, no good luck, just the sound of my brother flipping through TV channels as I walked out. I paused at the front door, looked back one last time, and stepped into the muggy morning air.

I went to the construction site thirty miles away, where my Uncle Mike worked.

The drive was long and bumpy—hot air blowing through the cracked windows of an old Ford pickup, the smell of gasoline and old sweat filling the cab. I watched the highway signs flick by, counting down the miles to something new.

My uncle laid bricks, and I mixed mortar.

He barked orders at me from the scaffolding, wiping his forehead with a grimy bandana. The other guys sized me up, some nodding in sympathy, others barely looking my way.

In the sweltering heat—over ninety degrees—I wore a hard hat, sweat pouring down my face.

The Georgia sun was relentless, beating down on us from a cloudless sky. Sweat dripped down my spine, and the air tasted like hot metal and dust. My shirt stuck to my back, my jeans stiff with dust.

A bag of cement slung over my shoulder smeared half my face with dust.

I coughed as the powder got into my mouth, the grit scraping against my teeth. My skin burned where the cement rubbed raw.

Mixed with sweat, the cement caked on, and I could barely open my mouth.

The taste of salt and earth made every sip of water feel like a blessing.

"Move it! You work so slow and still want to make money? Faster!"

My uncle barked at me, his tone full of impatience and contempt, as if I was just a useless burden.

He didn’t hold back, either—his voice carried across the site, making sure everyone heard just how disappointed he was in me.

I gritted my teeth and pushed my body to its limit to finish the work.

My hands ached, blisters popping open and stinging with every movement. But I kept going, counting down the hours until quitting time.

I’d never done hard labor before, so by the end of the day, my bones felt like they’d fall apart, and I passed out as soon as I got back to the dorm.

I collapsed onto a creaky metal cot, barely managing to peel off my work boots before I fell into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, I had to drag myself up for work again, feeling like my bones hadn’t even reassembled.

My muscles screamed as I stumbled out of bed, every step a fresh reminder of how unprepared I was for this kind of work.

After a few days, my whole body ached, and I started limping.

Even so, I kept my head down, refusing to let anyone see just how much it hurt. Pride was all I had left.

But finally, there was good news—the site was about to pay wages.

Rumor spread fast through the dorms—payday meant a brief taste of freedom, a night at the bar, maybe a steak dinner if you were lucky.

Even though I started halfway through the month, the other workers said as long as you were there on payday, you’d get paid for however many days you worked—no delays.

I counted every hour, every shift, already planning how I’d stretch those dollars as far as they’d go.

I happily went to look for my uncle, but he wasn’t in the dorm.

His bunk was empty, his boots gone. My stomach twisted with worry.

Did he go ahead without me?

A cold knot formed in my gut. I knew better than to trust family with money.

So I went alone to the makeshift trailer where they paid out wages.

The trailer smelled of cigarettes and coffee gone stale. A line had already formed outside, men stamping their feet, anxious for their cash.

The workers crowded around, noisy and impatient.

Voices overlapped, everyone eager to get paid and get out of the heat.

A loudspeaker barked: "Line up, or you won’t get paid!"

The voice crackled with authority, and everyone quieted down a little, shuffling into a crooked line.

Only then did everyone form a line.

I slipped in behind a guy who looked like he could bench-press a truck, trying to act casual.

I squeezed through and saw my uncle right at the front.

He glanced back at me and then quickly looked away, as if he hadn’t seen me at all.

Afraid of being pushed out, he clung to the pay table, arguing with the people behind him: "Don’t push!"

He jabbed an elbow at a wiry man who tried to cut ahead, making a scene while he secured his spot.

They started handing out money.

Bills slapped onto the counter, receipts signed with sweaty hands, workers grumbling about taxes and overtime.

After he got his pay, my uncle suddenly said, "Hey, I’m here for two people."

He waved his stubby fingers, trying to catch the paymaster’s attention as the line grumbled in protest.

Someone behind complained about him wasting time, asking why he was collecting for someone else.

"Let the kid get his own!" a voice barked, but my uncle just ignored him.

My uncle muttered, "A few days’ wages, how much time could that waste? In such a hurry to die?"

He shot a glare at the complainer, shaking his head like the world owed him patience.

A few people glanced at me—they all knew we were related.

I ducked my head, feeling their stares burning holes in my back.

I touched my nose, nodded apologetically, and stepped out of line, waiting for my uncle to get the money.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets, wishing I could disappear. The last thing I wanted was more attention.

But the next second, the foreman suddenly asked:

"Who are you collecting for, Mike Sanders?"

His voice was all business, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Yeah, Danny Sanders is my nephew," my uncle replied quickly.

He didn’t even look at me, his voice too eager, like he’d practiced the line.

I stared in disbelief.

It felt like the world slowed down for a second. My name sounded wrong coming out of his mouth.

I immediately rushed over to question him: "Uncle, why is the work I did registered under my dad’s name?"

My voice was loud, too loud, echoing in the cramped trailer. Heads turned.

My uncle frowned and shot back, "What difference does it make if it’s under your dad’s name or yours?"

He rolled his eyes, like I was being childish for caring about something as petty as my own wages.

"Besides, you’re not old enough, you don’t understand."

He said it with finality, like that settled everything. As if I was just a kid, not a worker who’d earned every dollar.

What do you mean it’s the same if it’s under your dad’s name?

The injustice burned in my chest. I’d spent all week breaking my back for those wages.

If the money goes to him, will I ever see a cent?

My mind raced—rent, supplies, food. All of it gone in an instant if my dad got the cash.

What about my tuition? How am I supposed to save up my start-up capital?

I tried to calculate how far I could get on nothing. The answer was nowhere.

Even if we ignore all that, why should the money I earned go to him?

It was my sweat, my blood, my aching hands. I was done letting them take from me.

"Uncle, step aside. I’ll collect my own wages. I don’t need you."

I squared my shoulders, stepping up to the counter. No more swallowing my pride. This was my line in the sand.

I tried to squeeze up to the front to get my money myself.

The crowd pressed in around me, heat and anger swirling. I didn’t care. I was done being polite.

Unexpectedly, my uncle shoved me aside, glaring and cursing,

He pushed me with surprising force, spit flying as he barked,

"You little brat, don’t you know your place? Get lost!"

His words landed like blows, but I stood my ground, glaring right back.

...

My anger flared, and I stared him down.

My fists clenched at my sides. I’d had enough—enough of being ignored, enough of being robbed, enough of being the family scapegoat.

Sure, I have no status at home and am not the favorite—everyone knows that.

It was the family joke, whispered at holidays and shouted in arguments. But today, it didn’t matter.

But does that give you the right to help my dad steal my wages?

I felt rage simmering in my veins, bubbling over.

I grabbed my uncle’s shirt, furious.

The fabric bunched in my fists, and I could feel his heartbeat thumping beneath my fingers.

"Why can’t I have my own wages?"

My voice cracked, but I made sure everyone could hear. It was the first time I’d stood up for myself in front of the whole family.

My uncle threw down his tools and slapped me hard.

His palm connected with a crack, the sting radiating down my jaw.

He’d been doing construction for years, strong as an ox, his calloused hands as hard as iron.

I tasted blood, blinking back tears I refused to shed.

The slap made my head spin, nearly knocking me out. For a second, all I saw were stars—then shame, hot and sharp, burned through the pain.

The world blurred around the edges, my ears ringing. But I didn’t back down.

After hitting me, he even boasted to the others,

He squared his shoulders, puffing out his chest like he’d just taught me a valuable lesson.

"Rebelling, are you!"

His voice echoed in the metal trailer, bouncing off the thin walls.

"Your brother needs to go to college. As the older brother, isn’t it your job to earn his tuition?"

I felt bile rising in my throat. The same old line, as if my whole existence was meant to serve my brother.

Dizzy, I watched as my uncle pocketed my few hundred bucks.

He counted it out in front of me, lips curling into a smug grin.

I just wanted my money back—my mind was full of that money.

It was the only thing between me and freedom. I wasn’t about to let it go without a fight.

My uncle just laughed, explaining to the foreman, "This kid’s a little punk. If he doesn’t listen, you’ve got to smack him."

The foreman nodded, pretending not to care. It was clear he thought family drama was none of his business.

Then he glanced at me with a sneer, "Don’t come tomorrow, you’re a disgrace!"

He spat at my feet, already turning away, like I wasn’t even worth his time.

He picked up his tools and turned to leave. I couldn’t take it anymore—I grabbed a brick, ran up behind him, and smashed it over his head.

My vision narrowed. The brick felt heavy in my hands. The sound of it cracking echoed in my ears, louder than I expected.

The brick split in two, my uncle froze, then spun around and grabbed me by the neck.

His fingers dug into my skin, squeezing until I gasped for air. My heart pounded in my chest, adrenaline surging.

He roared, "You little bastard, you dare rebel? You dare hit your uncle!"

The veins in his neck bulged, his face purple with rage. I couldn’t get a word out.

"Today I’ll teach you a lesson for your dad!"

His fists came down, heavy and fast. I felt every blow, pain sparking behind my eyes.

My uncle, blood running down his head, strangled me. I had no strength to resist and could only let his fists rain down on my face.

The world faded to black as I drifted in and out of consciousness, the sounds of shouting and boots on gravel echoing in my ears.

I was beaten unconscious, and when I woke up, I heard people arguing.

Their voices filtered through the haze, sharp and accusatory.

"Big brother, look at the kind of kid you raised! Hit his own uncle with a brick—sent him to the ER, needed five stitches!"

It was my aunt, her voice sharp as a knife.

She hovered over me, arms crossed, eyes narrowed to slits. The smell of cheap perfume stung my nose.

I tried to get up and argue, but my body wouldn’t listen.

Pain shot through my limbs, every movement a fresh agony.

"My brother’s awake!" my brother shouted beside me.

He hovered nervously, glancing at our parents for direction.

No sooner had he spoken than my dad yanked me up.

His grip was unforgiving, fingers digging into my shoulder as he hauled me upright.

He pulled me up roughly, making me want to scream from the pain.

Stars danced in my vision. I clenched my jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a cry.

"What happened? Why did you put your uncle in the hospital!"

My dad, not caring about right or wrong, barked at me.

He didn’t even look at the bruises on my face, just demanded answers as if nothing had happened to me at all.

My mom stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at me with my aunt.

Her expression was all fire and ice, judgment clear in every line of her face.

Their eyes looked at me like I was a criminal, all waiting to pass judgment.

No sympathy, no concern—just anger that I’d messed up the family’s image.

I looked at them, chilled to the bone.

A cold certainty settled in my chest: I would never be enough for them, no matter what I did.

My face was so swollen that every small movement hurt like fire.

I could barely open my mouth to speak. The pain was a constant throb.

I didn’t need a mirror to know how miserable I looked.

But them?

They didn’t care. I was just a problem to be solved, not a son who’d been hurt.

All their concern was for my uncle. This blatant favoritism made me feel like I’d fallen into an ice cave, the pain cutting to the bone.

The injustice burned worse than the bruises. I’d never felt more alone.

So I have no status—not just at home, but in the whole family clan.

Not only was I second to my brother—I wasn’t even worth as much as my dad’s brother. Family ties were just another way to keep me in line.

Not only can’t I compare to my brother, in my dad’s heart, I can’t even compare to his brother.

It was a bitter realization, one that hurt more than any slap.

Fine, then. I shook off my dad’s arm and moved myself to the wall to sit more comfortably.

I slid down the wall, finding a patch of cool tile, refusing to meet their eyes.

"Why did I hit him? Who told him to steal my wages?"

I made my voice as steady as I could, daring them to deny the truth.