I Was the Grass Beneath Your Feet

"Ms. Esme, what happened eight years ago caused a huge scandal. Mr. and Mrs. Walker said you shouldn't go out. You'll embarrass the family," Perry said.

He didn't even bother to hide the disgust in his eyes as he spat out the words "embarrass the family" forcefully.

"Ms. Wendy needs help at the hospital, so you'll have to clean up your room yourself."

"Feel free to do as you wish, Ms. Esme."

I glanced at the two housekeepers playing mobile games while lying on the couch.

I understood the reality perfectly. Someone as unloved and unwanted as I was would never truly be seen as the Walker family's daughter.

"Okay," I responded flatly.

The storage room under the stairs had been my room since I was ten years old. No one had ever cleaned it then, and it was no different this time.

But when I opened the door, the dust and mold still made me cough.

Yet, I was too exhausted. I lay on the bed and fell asleep right away.

…

In the middle of the night, I woke up groggy to get some water when I heard my brother, Brett Walker's, voice outside.

"Why did you bring Esme back? It's her fault Wendy got upset again. If anything happens to Wendy, I say we send Esme back into prison and never let her out! That would be doing society a favor."

My father, Richard Walker, sighed and stayed silent.

After a long pause, he finally said, "Esme is still a member of our family. The public may not know about this, but if someone with an agenda digs into it, it could harm Wendy."

"Then what should we do? It's cold and lonely at the hospital. Wendy can't stay there forever," Brett said, seemingly having forgotten that I was his sister, too.

Before Wendy came into our family, he used to call me "Mimi" endearingly.

My mother, Gemma Grant, spoke up. "When Wendy comes home, just make sure Esme doesn't come out and be an eyesore."

Although I had always known they didn't love me, hearing my mother say I was "an eyesore" still made my chest tighten painfully.

Suddenly, my phone rang. It was a message from Iris Marino, a professor from the Romeronian Academy of Letters.

"May God bless you, my child. Your poetry shines, and hiding yourself won't keep it from being seen," Iris wrote. "You won the award, didn't you? I told you this before. You were born to be a poet!"

I was momentarily speechless. I recalled how, back in prison, reading and writing were the only things that kept me going—especially poetry.

Nothing was born more vividly than poetry written in blood and tears.

At the time, there was international competition. I asked the prison guard who had secretly looked after me to submit my entry.

I didn't expect Iris to be one of the judges, and I never imagined I would actually win.

"I can't wait to take a genius like you to a place where your talent can shine. Will you come to Romero and be my student?" Iris asked.

I couldn't hold back my tears when faced with Iris, who was like a mother to me. I had never cried in the past eight years.

I met her during a community writing contest when I was in elementary school.

The kind and gentle elderly lady was a literature professor who truly appreciated my work. Even after I grew up, she kept in touch and asked more than once to bring me to Romero to study.

Sadly, before I could make my decision, the scandal eight years ago cut off every path I had.

However, Iris never believed the reports from that time. She worried about me for eight years and reached out the moment I was released.

To her, I was still her child.

Without hesitation, I texted back instantly and asked if I still had a chance to go to Romero.