One

Sara was nineteen years old, and life hadn't given her a damn thing. She was sitting on her bed, phone in hand, scrolling through the screen while watching those reels that seemed to scream at her from everywhere. Girls her age, some even younger, smiling as if they'd found the fucking holy grail. Tight dresses, shiny lips, suggestive poses. And there was the detail: "Thanks to my benefactor," one would say. Another would show off an expensive bag and write something about how older men know how to appreciate real women. Sara perfectly understood what was going on. Those girls were selling their bodies, spreading their legs for a few bills or gifts that made them feel like they were worth something.

It disgusted her. Disgust and anger. She couldn't imagine herself doing it, giving herself up like that, but at the same time… who didn't want to get out of the shit? She lived in an adobe house with a tile roof and rotten wood. A door that creaked every time someone touched it and three tiny rooms. One for her, another for her father, and the last one for Daniel, her older brother, who was just as useless as she was, according to her father. Her father, that bitter old man who always found a way to make her feel worse.

As she kept watching those posts, she heard his voice from the kitchen. "Sara! Make something for breakfast!" She sighed, put the phone down on the bed, and went out dragging her feet. The hallway was so narrow that she could barely walk without brushing against the peeling walls. When she got to the kitchen, she checked the pantry. Nothing. Not a single fucking can of tuna or a grain of rice. She turned to her father, who was sitting in an old chair with his arms crossed.

"There's nothing," Sara said, trying to stay calm though she already felt that mix of helplessness and rage rising in her chest.

"Of course there's nothing because you two are a couple of lazy bums," he replied, spitting out the words as if they were poison. "You and your brother, a pair of good-for-nothings."

That phrase hit her like a punch to the stomach. Lazy. Good-for-nothing. Always the same. Sara clenched her teeth and stayed quiet, but inside her head, it was all noise. She thought about those girls on Instagram again. The expensive bags, the nice shoes, the fake but confident laughs. For a second, just a second, she wondered what it would feel like to have that. But no. She wasn't going to be like them. She wasn't going to lose her innocence or her virginity for a few coins.

Her father got up, muttering insults, and left the house, slamming the door. Sara knew where he was going: to Doña Marta's, the neighbor. Doña Marta was a good person, too good to live in this hellhole of a neighborhood. Though she was also poor, she always tried to help when someone asked. Sara heard in the distance how her father asked her for money, promising to pay her back at the end of the month when he got his paycheck as a bricklayer. Of course, Sara thought bitterly, as if anyone believed this bastard would pay anything back.

A few minutes later, her father returned with a plastic bag in his hand. Beans, rice, and some toasted tortillas. He threw the bag on the table with disdain. "This will get us through today," he said, as if it were a favor he was doing. Sara didn't say anything. She just started cooking, boiling water in a rusty pot while her father sat down to smoke. Soon after, Daniel arrived, yawning and scratching his head as if he had just woken up from the best dream in the world.

When everyone was sitting at the table eating, the silence was broken by her father's words. "If Sara worked as a whore, at least we'd have some money in this house." Sara's spoon stopped halfway between the plate and her mouth. She felt the blood drain from her face and her hands began to tremble. Daniel let out a nervous laugh, but Sara couldn't take it anymore. She stood up abruptly, knocking the chair back, and ran to her room.

She locked herself in, slamming the door again, and threw herself onto the bed, face down. She grabbed the pillow and covered her head, trying to block out the voices that still came from the dining room. Her father kept talking, probably saying more crap about how useless she and Daniel were. Tears began to fall, soaking the pillowcase. She cried out of anger, sadness, frustration. She wanted to scream, break something, escape.

But she couldn't. Because she knew her father was right about one thing: they were trapped in this misery, and she saw no way out. She looked out the window, at the small patch of sky that peeked through the torn curtains. She imagined a different life. A life where she could buy whatever she wanted, wear nice clothes, eat decent food. Where no one called her useless ever again.

But then she remembered what she thought of those girls. Prostitutes. Sold-out. Trash. That's what they'd call her if she ever decided to take that path. She didn't want to be like them. She didn't want to lose herself. Still, as she cried, a little voice inside her head whispered: "What if it's the only way?"

Sara clenched her fists against the pillow and swore that someday she would leave that house. Someday she would stop being poor. She didn't know how or when, but she would do it. No matter the cost.