No

No.

So short. So punctual. Two simple letters, packed with meaning. A simple yes, or no can change your mood, day, quite possibly your entire life.

“No, thank you. I would not like more coffee.”

“No, it is not a problem! I would love to walk your dog for you.”

As a child, we are taught that no means no. As adults, most remember this lesson. They practice it themselves and pass it along to their children, along with the reminder that disobeying that no, can lead to repercussions. From being told to leave a place, to being in prison for life or even worse, we have been preached to understand the meaning of no. Some adults forgot this lesson.

Chapter 1

"Dear journal,

Alone. Alone in my room. I’m always alone. Why can’t I keep friends? I try. I really do. I guess I’m just not mea-"

“SAMANTHA! GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE NOW!” screeches my step mother.

I tuck my journal away in its hiding spot inside of a hollowed out dictionary, put the dictionary in its place on the shelf, and slowly ease out of the reading loft and onto the ladder, climbing to my bedroom below. I lug my way down the hallway to the kitchen, where my horrid step mother is waiting with her arms crossed, glaring down at me like I’m some sort of distasteful slug.

“Samantha, I TOLD you I would be home in two hours when I left and to be waiting in the kitchen when I returned. Where were you?!”

“I was in my re-”

Before I could finish my sentence, I felt the slap of her palm against my face. Tears threatened to fall out of my eyes, but I knew better than to cry. It would only make it more fun for her.

“If you say you were reading again, I am going to burn every book you own! When I tell you to do something you had better fucking do it! Understand?!”

My heart breaks at the thought of losing my books. They are all I have left.

“NO! Please, you can’t!” I cry, “Mama and Papa built the loft for me and gave me all those books! They are all I have left!” The tears break over the edge of my eyes and pour down my cheeks. I can not stand the thought of losing the last piece of my family I have left.

My mother was just an infant when her mother died of a heroin overdose. She was living on the streets of Chicago and shot up in a gas station bathroom with her three day old daughter. She took too much and died within minutes. An employee went into the bathroom a couple hours later to investigate the sounds of a baby crying and found my mother. She never learned who her father was.

My father was found abandoned inside of an empty crack house. He was no more than two days old when he was found and spent six months in the hospital recovering from starvation, hypothermia, dehydration, and many other issues including drug withdrawal from heroin.

My parents were sent to the same orphanage as infants, St. Vincent’s Infant Asylum. St. Vincent’s was one of the best orphanages in the country at the time. They took fantastic care of their children and offered services to expecting mothers who could not afford regular medical care or chose not to keep their child after birth. My father was taken to the asylum in 1953, straight from the hospital. My mother arrived in 1956, just hours after being found in the gas station bathroom. My father had still not been adopted and was a great help to the nurses and staff when it came time to take care of the babies. When he first saw my mother, he was instantly attached to her. He stayed by her side and refused to leave her. As they grew, they stayed very close. Both of them had been overlooked for adoption time and time again. They were both good looking, healthy, well behaved children, but they never seemed to catch anyone’s eyes. Papa always said “No one else wanted us, because we already had all we needed”. He truly loved Mama.