Chained by duty

Celeste stood in the shadowy corner of the dimly lit kitchen, the harsh fluorescence casting unforgiving shadows across the cracked and yellowing walls. Her aunt, Lillian, stood opposite her, arms folded and face contorted with disapproval.

"Celeste! How many times must I repeat myself? Those uniforms better be pressed to perfection! My children won't be seen parading around like beggars!" Lillian's voice cut through the stale air, sharp and unyielding.

Keeping her gaze lowered, Celeste pointed toward the immaculate uniforms hanging neatly by the back door. "They're ironed, Aunt Lillian. Everything is ready."

Lillian's eyes narrowed, her scowl deepening as if Celeste's efficiency was an affront. "Don't you dare talk back to me! Just because you've done one thing right doesn't mean you can slack off. You think running this household is a joke? It's by my mercy you even have a roof over your head! You're fortunate I don't toss you onto the streets!"

"I'm sorry," Celeste murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Sorry?" Lillian sneered. "Sorry doesn't clean the crumbs off my counters or scrub the filth from the bathroom! You're nothing but a weight around our necks, a lingering reminder of what your parents left us: debt and a burden."

That word, burden, struck like a whip, leaving an invisible welt on Celeste's already bruised spirit. She gripped the hem of her threadbare dress, her nails digging into the fabric as she fought to keep her composure.

She had heard this narrative countless times—an endless loop of reproach and resentment since the day she arrived at her father's relatives' home thirteen years ago. The accident that had claimed her parents' lives had also left her orphaned and, as Lillian claimed, burdened by their supposed debts.

"You should be grateful we didn't leave you on the streets," Lillian had declared on Celeste's first day in their home. "Your parents left behind nothing but troubles, and it's your duty to pay it back."

For years, Celeste had believed her, enduring every demand and reprimand without question. But as she grew older, she began to see through the lies. The so-called debt had long since been repaid, yet her servitude had never ended.

Lillian's shrill voice tore through her thoughts. "Why are you standing there like a statue? Move! The kitchen won't clean itself, and if I find even a speck of dust, you won't eat tonight!"

"Yes, Aunt Lillian," Celeste replied obediently, her voice steady but her spirit weary.

She turned to the sink, her hands working through the familiar rhythm of scrubbing dishes as her mind wandered to the life she longed for. The promise of dinner held little allure; it was rarely more than scraps or leftovers—cold remnants that barely staved off hunger.

Her gaze drifted to the small, grimy window above the sink, where the night sky stretched endlessly beyond her reach. Somewhere out there, a better life awaited her. She clung to that fragile hope like a lifeline.

A shrill voice shattered her reverie. "Celeste!" Her cousin Daisy stormed into the kitchen, her face twisted in irritation. "Where's my uniform? It's not in my closet!"

"It's by the door," Celeste answered softly, pointing to the freshly pressed clothes.

Daisy rolled her eyes. "Next time, put it in my room. And don't forget to polish my shoes. Honestly, you're useless."

Celeste nodded, swallowing her retort. Experience had taught her that defiance only brought harsher consequences.

When her tasks were finally complete, she ascended the creaking stairs to the attic. The tiny room she called her own was little more than a glorified storage space. The cracked window let in a biting draft, and the walls were bare save for faint water stains from years of neglect.

Sinking onto the thin mattress on the floor, Celeste allowed herself a moment of vulnerability. She reached beneath her pillow and retrieved a tattered notebook—a relic from her childhood, its pages her sole confidant.

She opened to a blank page and began to write:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I miss you more than words can say. I wonder if you can see me from wherever you are. Are you proud of me? I try so hard to be strong, but some days it feels impossible. Aunt Lillian says I'm here to pay off your debt, but I don't believe her anymore. I think she just wants me here to serve them. I don't know how much longer I can endure this. I feel so trapped. I wish you were here. I wish I could leave.

Love,

Celeste

A solitary tear fell, smudging the ink, and she hastily wiped her eyes. Closing the notebook, she lay back on the mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling. Her stomach growled, but hunger was a familiar companion, one she had learned to ignore.

As the house settled into an eerie quiet, Celeste let the tears fall freely. She cried for the parents she had lost, for the childhood stolen from her, and for the future that seemed an unattainable dream.

But deep within her, a tiny ember of resolve flickered. She couldn't remain in this house forever. She wouldn't.

Someday, she promised herself, she would leave this place behind and never look back. She didn't know when or how, but she would find a way.

As dawn's first light crept through the broken window, Celeste wiped away the remnants of her tears and rose to face another day. It would be another day of toil, of servitude. But it was also another step closer to the freedom she so desperately craved.

Unbeknownst to her, the life she dreamed of was closer than she could have ever imagined. Change was coming—and it would alter her world in ways she could never have foreseen.