I still remember that stormy night, years ago, when she was hit by a motorcycle while trying to retrieve a few bottles blown away by the wind. She came home drenched, blood dripping from her lips, yet she still smiled as if nothing had happened.
That night, I hugged her and sobbed, begging her to let me quit dancing. I couldn’t bear to see her suffer anymore.
But she only stroked my hair with her frail, trembling hand, “Don’t cry, my darling,” she whispered. “Grandma isn’t in pain. When I was young, I loved to dance, too. But in my time, girls like me had no chance to shine. You’re my hope, my pride. It’s my greatest joy to see you bloom on the stage.”
Her words became my strength. Every step I took was for her—for the love she poured into me, for the dream she never had the chance to chase. I endured pain, tears and heartache, but I never stopped dancing.
And now, Zayn Erickson had destroyed it all. His empty promise of “responsibility” was nothing but a cruel joke—a weak excuse to clear the path for Melinda.
I laughed bitterly through my tears, “Responsible? You call this responsibility?”