The broken path

The kitchen table was strewn with papers—bills, overdue notices, and a letter from Mark's school. Mary sat quietly, watching her father, Mr. David, run a grease-stained hand through his hair. The light above flickered, adding to the gloom of the room.

"We've done everything we can, Emily," Mr. David said, his voice heavy. "I've taken every extra job at the shop, but it's still not enough. They're threatening to send Mark home if we don't pay by the end of the month."

Mrs. Emily, her usually warm face drawn with exhaustion, rubbed her temples. "I've picked up more shifts at the library, but it barely covers groceries and the utilities. I don't know what else we can do."

Mary's heart sank as she listened. She knew money had always been tight, but hearing her parents so defeated was like a punch to the gut.

"Can't we ask the school for more time?" Mrs. Emily asked, though her voice lacked hope.

"We've already asked twice," Mr. David replied. "They're not going to wait forever."

The silence that followed was deafening. Mary stared at her plate, the food untouched.

"Mary," her father said suddenly, his tone sharper than he intended. "You need to start pulling your weight. Your grades have been slipping, and we can't afford you to fail. You understand that, don't you?"

Mary looked up, startled. "I—I'm trying," she stammered.

"Trying isn't good enough," her mother added, her voice trembling with frustration. "Do you even realize how much pressure we're under? You're old enough to help, not add to the burden."

The words felt like knives, cutting deeper than they realized. Mary nodded silently, her appetite completely gone.

Later that night, Mary sat in her room, her desk lamp casting a soft glow. She tried to focus on her homework, but her parents' voices echoed in her mind. The weight of their expectations, the guilt of her slipping grades, and the fear of Mark being sent home all pressed down on her chest like a heavy stone.

Her eyes fell on the sewing kit her mother had given her years ago. Among the threads and needles was a small pin. Without thinking, she picked it up, running her fingers over its sharp tip. It was such a tiny thing, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, yet it seemed to hold a strange power.

She pressed it against her skin, the prick of pain distracting her from the storm of emotions inside. It wasn't much, but it was enough to quiet the noise in her head for a moment. She quickly rolled down her sleeve, hiding the small red dot that marked her arm.

As she lay in bed that night, Mary stared at the ceiling, her mind racing. She told herself it was a one-time thing, that she'd find another way to cope. But deep down, she knew she was only fooling herself.