Campbell

Margaret Campbell awoke to the sound of her alarm clock. It was early, Friday morning, too early for any teenager to be awake at.

With a long, drawn-out yawn, she stretched her arms above her head and rolled out of bed.

It was almost the weekend, and tomorrow—her birthday—she would finally turn eighteen. But Friday mornings were always the toughest, and she couldn't help but wish that today was Saturday instead.

If only she could skip school and dive right into celebrations and relaxation.

With a sigh, she trudged her way to the bathroom, where she splashed cold water on her face to help wake her up. She turned on the faucet and brushed her teeth, ready to get the day over with.

Her eighteenth birthday was just hours away, and she had already set aside a combination of wishes and hopes for what she wanted.

Yet for now, she had to deal with the mundane reality of high school.

After finishing her morning routine, she glanced in the mirror and couldn't help but smile at her reflection.

Most admired her long, straight brunette hair. She had always loved her hair, taking great care to maintain it. With a comb in hand, she began the time-honored ritual of brushing it—exactly one thousand strokes.

Once she was satisfied, she picked out her outfit for the day.

She slid into her favorite white blouse—simple yet elegant—and paired it with a pretty floral skirt. She completed the look with a pair of comfortable yet stylish sneakers.

One look at her phone for the time, and she noticed a message from her friend. It read, "I'll be there in ten, ready to pick you up!"

As Margaret made her way outside, she wondered to herself what it would be like to finally be eighteen.

She had heard about the freedom it offered—the right to vote and the ability to make her own choices. Yet, a part of her felt anxious about this new chapter. Would it mean more responsibilities? Would her friends treat her differently?

She opened the door and stepped out. Whatever lay ahead, she was eager for it.

"Hey!" her mother called from the doorway, interrupting her thoughts.

Margaret turned back to see her parents waiting, her mother smiling and her stepfather observing with a neutral expression.

"You forgot to say bye!" her mother said.

Feeling irritated yet aware of her obligation, Margaret forced a polite smile and said in a voice lacking enthusiasm, "Bye, mom."

"What about your father?" her mother prodded, sensing the tension.

Margaret glanced at Darrel and replied with restrained annoyance, "Bye, Darrel." With that, she climbed into the car where her friend was waiting, relieved to be out of earshot.

Her friend already had the radio playing pop music, and as she slid into the passenger seat, her companion turned with a grin.

"Happy birthday eve!" she hollered. Are you excited?"

"Sort of. I just wish I didn't have to deal with school one last day."

"Come on! Just think about how great tomorrow'll be. Girl, you're finally turning eighteen!"

In times like these, during Margaret's annoyance, only her friends' enthusiasm could lift some of her frustration.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. I shouldn't let today ruin my mood."

Leaning back in her seat as they drove through town, she watched the scenery pass by.

She was not always like this, easily letting things get to her. It was easier to remember a time when she was carefree and filled with optimism. But as she enjoyed the car ride, she understood why she had become cynical and irritable, especially about the smallest things.

Several years ago.

Margaret's childhood had juxtaposed joy with muted sorrow. Her parents had fought, arguing about everything.

She recalled nights when all she could hear was them lashing out at one another with hurtful words. They fought about bills, and she often felt as though she were drowning in their discontent.

Even as a child, she sensed guilt. She worried that she was somehow responsible for their issues.

On some evenings, she wondered if her existence was too costly, a burden they never intended to carry. She hoped their love would triumph over their struggles, but that nagging voice in her head made her think otherwise.

It was a lie she internalized over the years, like a child taking on a shadow.

When her father finally left, it marked a division in her life. Her mother gained custody, and though she initially felt relieved by the absence of fights, she soon found herself caught in a different turmoil.

Five days with her mother and weekends at her father's. It felt like being split between two worlds, both of which she wanted to escape.

Visiting her father was no less a burden. His house enforced rules that she didn't like. There, she was expected to adhere to the following: no late-night video games or anime marathons.

He viewed anything he considered a waste of time as detrimental. And who could blame him? With so much mundane content going around and ruining children's imaginations, he was truly looking out for her.

Yet she couldn't see that.

"You should spend your time reading something worthwhile!" he would chide.

It's forceful words like that that caused her rebellious nature to unfold. While under his roof, the only thing she could really do was lodge herself in her room and occasionally get on her phone.

If it wasn't for her friend living so close by him, she would have gone insane.

Yet even in fun, she couldn't shake the inadequacy that surfaced during quieter moments.

Being lied to was something she couldn't stand. It was the scars from her parents' separation that intensified this disdain. In her mind, any distortion set her teeth on edge.

Because all she wanted was authenticity—the transparent relationships her past experiences had denied her.

High school.

It was past time, the perfect moment for Margaret to get on her phone to read comics and graphic novels. Manhwa, manhua, manga—she loved them all.

Her classmates loved her taste in genre almost as much as she had. Yet Margaret wasn't the most enthusiastic peer. As long as they respected her hobbies, their opinions didn't matter to her.

"Happy early birthday, Marge!" a student happily said. "Any plans this weekend?"

"Honestly, I haven't decided yet," she replied, scrolling through her phone.

The student caught the hint—Margaret wanted to be left alone. Of course, that didn't apply to her closest friend, who just so happened to walk into the classroom.

"Girl, you're not reading what I think you are!" she laughed.

The romance novel "I Too Had a Love Story" by Indian author Ravinder Singh just got translated in English, so Margaret couldn't help but take a look.

She put her phone down and smiled, "Maybe. Ha-ha. Hey, wanna help me dye hair later?"

"What colour?" To answer, Margaret pointed at the whiteboard where the marker rested. Her friend's eyebrows shot up. "Red? Really?"

"I've always liked red." Dyed red hair wasn't a common colour. In today's time, however, a lot of worldly individuals valued it. The friend's expression turned skeptical, but before she could ask more, Margaret cut her off. "Hey, it's just my favorite color. Who knows how I'll feel about it tomorrow? But it's worth trying, right?"

"I mean, I guess so. Ha-ha. Girl, you so crazy."

Dyeing her hair seemed like the perfect way to express herself on the eve of her 18th birthday. With that, they planned a trip to the mall after school, picking up a box of red dye.

At her friend's house, they transformed her hair, washing it and applying the dye.

"Ta-da!" her friend dramatically exclaimed, whipping Margaret's head around to face the mirror.

When she looked, she was surprised by how much she liked it. The reflection that looked back at her radiated luminous shades of red, reflecting both the passion she felt inside and that sense of vibrancy on the outside.

"Wow," she breathed, her eyes widening. She grinned, tentatively touching the silky strands. "I really like it!"

"Can you imagine how many boys are gonna stare?" her friend pridefully declared. The next question, however, caught Margaret off guard. "Think your mom and stepdad'll like it?"

Margaret snorted, "Who cares? I'm turning eighteen."

It was a phrase many her age boasted a lot of times before. Truly, it was a rallying cry for teenagers asserting their independence.

In this case, it seemed to be a hollow sentiment, a desperate attempt to sound confident when Margaret's heart still felt indeterminate.

Being biologically legal in the United States felt more like a sentence than a law.

As Margaret stood there, looking at her reflection in the mirror, she realized that being eighteen was just one aspect of adulthood. The commandments of God, which her mother had often spoken about, emphasized the importance of honouring her parents.

Growing up, Margaret had always been told to respect her parents, but she was never given guidance or taken to church on how to balance her own desires with her obligations to them. As a result, she felt lost.

She thought back to the countless times her friends had told her to follow her heart, but what did that even mean? Was it about doing what felt good in the moment, or was it about considering the consequences of her actions?

As the dye set, her thoughts turned to her mother and stepfather. They would probably disapprove of her new hair colour and would probably try to tell her that it was too flashy or too bold. But she was determined to hold her ground.

She was, after all, turning eighteen.

Little did she know that this was only the beginning of an act of rebellion.

As the two friends chatted, laughing and joking about the possibilities of Margaret's new hair color, she couldn't shake off the feeling that she was playing with fire. But what did she have to lose?

For the first time, she felt a sense of freedom.

The two friends ended their outing at a local café, where her impending parental interactions faded.

"Thank you for doing this with me," Margaret said with a genuine gratitude. "I really needed this."

"Anytime, girl! Tomorrow's the big day! Brand-new hair and brand-new you!"

With a grin, they clinked their cups together.

Eventually, Margaret was taken home. As she entered the familiar confines of her house, the earlier sense of joy was almost immediately eclipsed by tension in the air.

Eyes narrowing in disbelief, her mother was the first to ask her about her new look. "Margaret, what have you done to your hair?"

Her voice was teetering on the brink of a shout.

"I dyed it red," Margaret replied, trying to keep her tone light. "It's not a big deal. I'm turning eighteen!"

"That's not an excuse for this kind of behaviour!" her mother fired back. She went from shocked to angry. "You think you can just do whatever you want now?"

With voices rising, Margaret began to get defensive as she said, "Excuse me? I don't have to listen to you!"

Those were words no parents wanted to hear. It didn't matter which nation a family was in; the Campbell household was no different than another's. Perhaps they weren't the richest or the poorest; it didn't mean they wanted to be disrespected by their own daughter.

Her mother's face flushed red as she shouted, "You're under our roof, so you have to abide by our rules, young lady!"