Chapter 2
The front door slammed shut, the metallic echo bouncing off the chipped plaster walls of the hallway as Terrell stormed out to his car, taking half of Marcus’s hard-earned money with him like a conquering tyrant. The living room plunged into an uncomfortable, suffocating silence, broken only by the hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen. Marcus stood frozen where he was, his chest heaving with restrained fury, his knuckles white as he gripped the remaining bills in his hand. He looked at Elena, expecting at least a shred of remorse, a brief maternal glance that acknowledged the injustice of what had just transpired under her own roof. Instead, Elena simply turned her back, walking over to the small coffee table to meticulously count the stolen cash Terrell had just secured for her.
"Don't look at me like that, Marcus," Elena muttered, not even bothering to look up from the stack of bills she was organizing. "You don't know what it takes to keep this roof over our heads. You pay rent or you find somewhere else to sleep."
Marcus let out a slow, deliberate breath, trying to keep his voice from trembling with rage. "I pay my share, Ma. Every single week. But he doesn't. He sits on that couch all day, smoking, drinking, and now he's dipping into my future? Four hundred dollars is what I need for my community college enrollment fee. You just let him steal my education."
Elena stopped counting, her shoulders stiffening under her dark red button-down shirt. She finally turned around, her face carved from stone. "Education doesn't put food on the table tonight, Marcus. Life is hard. You think the world cares about your classes? Terrell helps out in ways you're too blind to see."
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"What ways?" Marcus stepped closer, his voice rising, carrying a desperate edge. "Name one thing he’s done besides drain your bank account and disrespect me in my own home."
Before Elena could answer, a loud, heavy knock pounded against the front door, making both of them jump. Marcus frowned, walking past his mother to peer through the small peephole, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. Standing on the porch wasn't a neighbor or a delivery driver; it was two men in plainclothes holding up leather badges, demanding that Terrell open up immediately.
