I Am No Longer Your Burden

After I shoved Wayne out of the path of a speeding truck, my cognitive development froze. I was physically growing, but mentally, I stayed five years old.

From then on, Wayne became the one who raised me. He spent years teaching me how to write my name, over and over. He taught me to memorize our phone number, to boil pasta.

Until Isla showed up. She was his new assistant at the firm—brilliant, polished, and glowing. They were a team. He secured the clients; she drafted the proposals.

Everyone said they were the perfect match. Slowly, I noticed him staring at her photos on his phone, lost in thought.

Meanwhile, no matter how hard I tried to boil pasta without letting it stick to the pot, no matter how hard I tried to stay out of his way...

He stopped teaching me. "Marina, what can a child's brain actually learn?

No matter how hard you try, you'll never be like Isla." The exhaustion and annoyance in his eyes suffocated me. Finally, I tried getting a parttime job.

But I couldn't remember how many spoonfuls of sugar went into a coffee. The shop manager yelled at me, called me stupid, and kicked me out. I walked home in tears.

I stared at the old academic certificates plastering my bedroom walls—relics from before the accident—and cried for three days straight. I hated myself.

I screamed at my own mind, asking why I had thrown my brain away. When the tears dried, I begged Wayne to help me practice one last time.

He was busy proofreading a long email for Isla.

He didn't want her to face any heat from the gallery curators, so he spent ten minutes agonizing over a single comma. "Can't you see I'm busy?" Without even looking up, he shoved a flyer into my hand. "If you really want to learn, go to the Beacon Center.

Even the kids there are smarter than you." I didn't say a word. I just took the flyer and followed the map. The classroom was bright, lined with colorful foam play mats.

A man in a light gray buttondown shirt was kneeling on the floor, patiently teaching an eightyearold boy how to tie his shoelaces, over and over.

He looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. He paused, then offered a warm, gentle smile. "Are you here to learn how to tie laces, too?" ...

I stared at his smile, my voice stumbling over the words as I tried to explain my situation. "I... I want to grow up. I want to live on my own.

I don't want to be a burden anymore..." The man stood up quietly, waiting patiently for me to piece my broken sentences together. "You're different from the children here.

You're capable of basic selfcare. Are you sure you want to enroll?" Was even this place going to turn me away?

Panicked, I dug into my pockets and pulled out every dollar bill I had. "I can pay tuition!" He let out a soft sigh, pulled out a registration form, and began writing. "I'm Simon.

Simon Beckett. I'm the instructor here." "I'm very strict, Marina.

Learning here will be hard work." "I'm not afraid." Once the form was filled out, he had me ink my thumbprint at the bottom and sit among the children.

As soon as I sat down, the phone in my pocket vibrated. It was Wayne. "I'm taking Isla to meet the curator. I'll be back late." "Stay inside. Don't go wandering off.

There's food in the fridge, use the microwave—" He cut himself off with a bitter, selfdeprecating laugh. "Forget it. You don't even have a normal brain.

What do I expect you to remember?" "Just eat it cold. Don't touch the microwave, the outlets, or the stove." A dull ache bloomed in my chest. I knew how to use those things.

I wasn't as stupid as he thought. But before I could speak, the line went dead.

While I was staring at the blank screen, Simon called my name. "Marina, I was just explaining how we build memory association. Why don't you show us?" Anxious, I stood up.

He laid out three cards on the table. One showed a sugar bowl, one a licking flame, one a snowflake. "Marina, when you worked at the coffee shop, what scared you the most?" "I...

I was scared of forgetting if the customers wanted sugar, or if they wanted it iced or hot..." He spread the cards before me, explaining that the sugar bowl meant extra sweet, the flame meant hot, and the snowflake meant iced.

Then he drew one at random. "What does this one mean?" I scrambled for the answer, but my mind suddenly went completely blank. My face burned.

Instinctively, I covered my ears and squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself for the look of pure disappointment.

Whenever I failed to memorize our phone number, Wayne would look at me exactly like that. "You've been trying to memorize a simple number for months, Marina. Are you a blockhead?

Even a toddler is smarter than you! Forget it. Teaching you is a waste of time." But then, a gentle hand pulled my fingers away from my ears.

Simon laid the card flat in front of me. "Don't rush.

When you try to think too fast, your brain locks up." He pointed to the card with the flame. "What is this?" "A fire." "And what does fire represent?" "Hot." "Exactly.

If a customer wants a hot drink, you associate it with the flame." He walked me through each card like that. On the final draw, I pictured the symbols just as he had suggested.

This time, I remembered. "See? No rush.

You can do this." As we walked back to our seats, a little girl wearing a mushroompatterned dress held her hand high in the air for a highfive. "You did so good!" she cheered.

Nobody had called me good since my father died. My throat tightened, but I blinked the tears back. When class ended, a cold wave of anxiety washed over me.

I had spent all my money on the tuition. I didn't have enough for a cab, I didn't know the way, and I had never taken the public bus alone.

Simon watched the last of the children leave, then turned his gaze to me. "Where do you live?

Getting you home is your final lesson for today." On the bus, at every stop, he pointed out landmarks. "Look at the curved green bench.

Look at the gray pedestrian bridge..." Finally, the bus pulled up next to a massive bed of blooming roses. "This is your stop, Marina.

If you can't remember the street names, remember the roses. They'll guide you home." I stared at the apartment complex.

For the first time in my life, I hadn't waited for Wayne to fetch me.

Whenever I used to ask Wayne to teach me the way home, his impatience would flare. "Why do you need to know the directions? With your brain, you can't go out alone anyway.

Stop making trouble. Nobody has time to hunt you down every single day." Eventually, I stopped asking. Venturing out meant making trouble. And making trouble was terrifying.

At the entrance of the complex, I saw Wayne. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

The moment he caught sight of me, he lunged forward and grabbed my wrist in a crushing grip. "I told you to stay put!

Why can't you just listen to plain English?" He squeezed so hard I thought my bones would snap. "Isla is still waiting for me to meet the curator, and I had to spend the last hour scouring the streets for you!

Are you doing this on purpose?" His eyes were rimmed with red, burning with the same desperate anger I'd seen years ago. Once, we had gotten separated in a crowded mall.

He had panicked so badly he tripped and cracked his kneecap searching for me. After that, he tied a red string around both our wrists.

The cord chafed his skin until it bled, but he refused to take it off. "This way, I can show you the world, and I never have to worry about losing you." But then Isla came along, the red string disappeared, and Wayne locked me inside. "I was at the training center," I whimpered, shaking my head through the pain. "Dr.

Beckett is teaching me." Wayne stiffened. A cold, mocking sneer crept onto his face. "Dr. Beckett?

You've known him for a day and you already trust him?" "You're beyond help, Marina.

If you actually want to get better, you should check into an asylum." I bit my lip, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I'm not crazy.

I learned how to take the bus home today." He looked down at me, his expression icy. "Something a normal toddler can do, and you think you've accomplished a miracle?" He banned me from going back. "You're just begging to get conned.

What else do you know how to do besides be a burden?" The next day, Wayne stayed home. Isla came over to the apartment, too.

Her voice was sweet and bright, and she looked at me with an air of amused curiosity. "Wayne mentioned you went to some... special development center?" She reached into her purse, pulled out a small, beautifully wrapped box, and slid it across the table. "A little gift.

I'm sure you can use it in your classes." She opened the box with a sweet smile. Inside was a pink pacifier. I recognized the words on the label: "Soothing.

Ages 02." "If you can't understand what's going on and want to call Wayne, just use this. Newborns chew on these and quiet down instantly.

It'll keep you nice and quiet so you don't keep calling Wayne and interrupting his work." My fingers clenched into fists. I understood.

She was laughing at me, treating me like a brainless baby. I pushed the box back. "I don't need it. Dr.

Beckett can teach me." Wayne's voice rang out, devoid of warmth. "She went out of her way to bring you a gift, and this is how you behave?" "Honestly, Marina, what Isla brought is probably more useful than whatever that flybynight teacher of yours is peddling." His cold stare made my chest ache.

It brought back a memory from childhood, when some older neighborhood boys tried to trick me into eating mud, promising it would make me smart.

Wayne had tracked them down and fought them all. He came home bloody and bruised, but he wouldn't back down. "Marina isn't stupid!

Nobody gets to treat her like she's stupid!" But now, he was standing shouldertoshoulder with the people who mocked me. Was it because I had grown even stupider in his eyes?

I pressed my lips together. "I don't care. I'm going to class." Wayne's face darkened. He grabbed my arm, dragged me out of the apartment, and forced me into his car.

He drove in silence, eventually pulling over at a chaotic, unfamiliar intersection.

Groups of men lounged on the corner, smoking and drinking from cheap beer bottles. "Didn't your precious teacher show you how to navigate?" Wayne hissed. "Let's see if his little tricks actually work." He put the car in drive, giving me one last, piercing look. "It's been twenty years, Marina.

I'd love nothing more than for you to prove me wrong." The car sped away, leaving me on the curb.

One of the smoking men turned his head and whistled. "Hey sweetheart, boyfriend dump you?

Want a ride?" I scrambled backward, panic flooding my chest, and ran as fast as my legs could carry me. I ran until my lungs burned and my knees shook.

I collapsed in a crying heap in front of a small convenience store. My phone buzzed.

It was Simon. "If you can't commit to showing up for class, Marina, don't come back." I gripped the phone tightly, sobbing. "I'm sorry. I'm so useless.

I'm lost again." A heavy silence hung on the other end of the line. "Don't cry," he said, his voice firm but quiet. "I taught you how to read the streets.

Tell me, what do you see around you?" I forced my tears back, blinking rapidly. "A green grocery store... and a bridge shaped like butterfly wings..." "Excellent. Stay right there.

Don't move." I crouched near the storefront. After what felt like an eternity, a figure came sprinting through the intersection. Simon's collar was unbuttoned, his breathing heavy.

Instinctively, I threw my arms around his neck, burying my face in his chest.

His ears flushed a deep crimson, and he gently, firmly pushed me back to arm's length. "Next time, do exactly this.

The clearer you describe your surroundings, the faster someone can find you." He paused, his gaze softening. "But next time, you'll find your own way home." I nodded quickly.

For that day's lesson, Simon rode the city buses with me for four straight hours. By the end of it, I had finally figured out how to identify the correct routes.

As we wrapped up, a wave of exhaustion and selfdoubt hit me. "How long does it take to become an adult?" I asked quietly.

He reached out and gently ruffled my hair. "Even if you feel like a child, you are the brightest one I know." "Before this, you just didn't have anyone to guide you properly." "Let's give it a month.

Let's work hard together, okay?" When I got home that evening, Isla was still there.

Wayne was meticulously editing her proposal. "Don't just say 'we are highly professional,'" Wayne murmured, his voice patient. "It sounds too cold, too aggressive.

Read the next line for me." He guided her through the text, syllable by syllable, polishing every word.

He had only ever used that tone with me once—years ago, when he was tracing the letters of my name on a sheet of paper.

In the years since, whenever I asked him to help me read, his patience had evaporated into frustration. "You're going to be like this forever, Marina.

What's the point of learning a few letters?" Wayne looked up as I walked through the door, his eyes scanning me coldly. "How many strangers did you have to beg to get yourself home today?" Isla rose from the couch, offering a patronizing smile. "Well, at least she made it back.

That's better than getting caught in the rain because she didn't know enough to run inside." The mockery behind her smile made my stomach turn.

I wanted to retreat to my room, but Isla stepped into my path, pointing to a book in my hands. "Marina, I noticed that math textbook in your room.

I'm actually really interested in advanced mathematics. Would you mind letting me have it?" My heart seized. I clutched the book tightly to my chest.

It was the only thing I had left of my father. Growing up, it had just been my dad and me.

He used to hold me in his lap, pointing at the numbers and equations in this very book. "This book kept me company while I grew up, Marina. Now it's going to help you grow up, too.

You're going to be a mathematician, just like your old man." But when I was seven, on Wayne's birthday, my father and I had gone to celebrate with him.

I had run into the street, and my father had dove to push me out of the way. He was struck by a speeding car and died instantly. The trauma and head injury froze my mind at five.

My father was gone. My brain was broken. And this book was the only physical piece of his warmth I could still touch.

Wayne stood up, stepping over and reaching for the book. "Give it to Isla, Marina. She's a brilliant student. You can't even read half the words in there.

Keeping it in your room is just a waste of space." I squeezed the book tighter, tears springing to my eyes. "No! Wayne, you promised!

You know this was my dad's!" Wayne's face hardened, a dark shadow crossing his features. "Marina, I know exactly what I owe you and your father.

You don't need to constantly throw it in my face." He yanked the book from my hands with a sudden, violent pull. "Rip." The spine snapped.

The worn pages tore down the middle, scattering across the hardwood floor like dead leaves.

I dropped to my knees, frantically trying to gather the torn sheets, my tears blurring my vision and dampening the paper. Wayne's jaw clenched.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but his voice came out cold and sharp. "I've spent twenty years of my life taking care of you, and I didn't cry.

You lose a stupid book and you act like the victim." He grabbed his coat and left with Isla.

I sat on the floor, trying to piece the shredded pages back together, but they wouldn't fit. My phone buzzed.

It was Simon, checking my homework. "Marina, did you memorize the symbols I gave you?" I wiped my face with a trembling hand. "Dr. Beckett... my dad's book is broken.

Can you... can you teach me how to fix it?" The line went silent for a beat. Then, he read out an address. "Okay. Remember the path I taught you.

Use your landmarks and find your way to this address." "If you can find me, I'll help you fix your book." I wiped away my tears and stood up. "I can do it." The sycamore tree.

The gray utility pole. The blue iron gate. Maplecrest Road. I had made it.

Simon was standing near the bus stop, his shadow stretched long under the amber glow of the streetlamp. "You found it," he said softly. "Looks like I have a book to repair." He led me into a small workshop filled with tools and machines I couldn't name.

Putting on a pair of thin gloves, he meticulously aligned the torn edges of the pages, applying a clear, specialized adhesive with steady fingers.

As he pressed the final page down, he looked up. "We'll let the glue cure overnight, and it'll be as good as new." He paused. "Did your father write these notes in the margins?" I looked down, feeling a sudden wave of selfconsciousness. "Yes.

My dad always said I had a mind for numbers, just like him. He said one day I'd be able to read this book." I instantly regretted saying it. I braced myself for the inevitable.

He was going to tell me I was foolish, just like Wayne did.

But Simon only handled the page with utmost reverence. "He was right," Simon said, his tone quiet and utterly serious. "I will teach you." "We'll start with the vocabulary.

One day, you'll read every single page." I stared at his downcast eyelashes. In my chest, it felt like a butterfly had suddenly fluttered its wings.

I threw myself into my lessons every day. I learned how to measure and mix cleaning solutions with water. I learned how to pick fresh vegetables at the market.

During our last session, Simon played the role of a coffee shop customer. "Flame card: hot coffee. Three sugar bowl cards: extra sweet." I got it perfectly right.

He gently patted my head. "Your mistakes in the past weren't because you couldn't do it, Marina. They were because you were afraid. Just be brave.

You're going to be fine." When the coffee shop manager had kicked me out, Wayne had blamed my tears. "Look at you. Of course they threw you out.

What did you expect?" That tone had always convinced me that I was fundamentally broken.

But now, sitting across from Simon, I realized that maybe things could actually be different.

I packed up my flashcards, feeling like the day I could finally leave Wayne's shadow was drawing closer.

When I got home, Wayne was packing a suitcase. "I didn't make a single mistake with the coffee orders today," I said, wanting him to know.

Wayne's eyes flickered with an emotion I couldn't read. "And? What of it?" "Does that mean you can stand by my side like Isla does?

Does that mean people will stop looking at me with pity because I'm saddled with a stray?" He zipped his suitcase without looking at me. "I'm going abroad with Isla for a week.

She's been planning this exhibition for months, and it's incredibly important to her. I need to make sure everything goes off without a hitch." I watched his back.

I remembered a few months ago, when I had caught a terrible fever. I had crept into his room holding a bottle of medicine. "Can you teach me how to read this label?

I don't want to take the wrong dose." He hadn't even looked up from his laptop. "With your brain, I could explain it a thousand times and you'd still get it wrong.

Isn't it enough that I portioned them out for you?" "But what if you're not here?" I had asked. "Then you wait until I get back.

Stop making everything so difficult." His patience hadn't vanished. It had just been redirected to someone else.

Before he walked out the door, I asked in a small voice, "Wayne... what if one day I can take care of myself?" He cut me off, his voice flat. "Don't be ridiculous." "I'm not going to abandon you, Marina.

But do me a favor and just stay put for the next few days. Please." To keep me from wandering off, he locked the deadbolt from the outside.

He said he left food, but he had forgotten. The fridge was practically empty—just a bag of frozen dumplings and a couple of eggs.

I stared at the stove, my hands trembling as I took a step back. The last time I tried to cook, the pot had boiled dry, filling the kitchen with thick, black smoke.

After Wayne put out the fire, he had smacked my palms as punishment. "I'm going to take care of you for the rest of your life. Isn't that enough?

Why do you keep doing stupid things?" I had never touched the stove since. But my stomach was screaming with hunger. With trembling fingers, I called Simon. "Dr.

Beckett... the door is locked from the outside.

Can you... can you teach me how to boil dumplings over the phone?" His voice came through the receiver, calm and incredibly patient. "Fill the pot halfway with water." "Once the water starts bubbling, count to a hundred and twenty." I counted.

One, two, three... "Dr. Beckett, they didn't burn! They're perfect!" But then, a strange, sweet, sulfurous smell hit my nose. Like rotten eggs.

I remembered what Simon had taught me. "A rotten egg smell means a gas leak." Wayne had mentioned a faulty pipe weeks ago, but he had brushed it off. "You don't know how to use the stove anyway, so there's no point in fixing it." "BOOM." A sudden blast of heat knocked me off my feet as flames erupted from beneath the stove.

I dropped to my knees, crawling frantically toward the living room, coughing violently. Instinctively, I dialed Wayne's number.

The call connected, but his voice was tight with annoyance. "Marina, for God's sake, give me a second to breathe, will you?" The line went dead. He had turned off his phone.

A searing pain shot through my arm—a stray ember had scorched my skin. Tears of pain and terror streamed down my face. "Think, Marina. Simon taught you what to do.

Think." Damp towel. Cover your nose and mouth. I dragged myself into the bathroom, slamming the door and stuffing a towel into the crack beneath it. The smoke began to seep through.

My throat burned. My eyelids felt heavy, pulling me down into a dark, suffocating weight. With the last of my strength, my thumb pressed a contact on my screen.

I didn't even see who it was before everything went black. When I opened my eyes, the sterile smell of disinfectant filled my nose. I was in a hospital bed. Wayne's mother, Mrs.

Adler, was sitting beside me, her face pale and her eyes swollen from crying.

She clutched my hand, sobbing, begging my deceased father for forgiveness. "Thank God a good Samaritan got to you in time... We couldn't reach that stupid boy of mine.

The doctor said if they had been even a minute later..." She glanced toward the corner of the room. Simon was standing there, his face haggard.

I realized then that my last call had been to him. I stared up at the white ceiling tiles, my voice raspy but clear. "Mrs.

Adler... can I have the keys to my father's old apartment now?" Mrs. Adler's sobs redoubled. "Marina, sweetie, how can you live on your own?

Wayne is supposed to look after you forever." I looked at her, my gaze steady. "I'm twentyfive. I want to grow up now." Mr.

Adler, who had been standing silently by the window, walked over. Without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a brass key, and gently pressed it into my palm.

Because I had managed to block the door and protect my airway, my injuries were minor, and I was discharged a few days later. I moved into my father's old apartment.

Simon came over to help me unpack. "Marina, do you know what the most terrifying, yet most wonderful thing in the world is?" he asked.

I shook my head. "It's knowing that you have only yourself to rely on." I looked at him and smiled, the sun catching the dust motes in the quiet room. "I know, Simon. I know." ...

Wayne and Isla spent seven days abroad. The moment his plane touched down, he turned on his phone. A barrage of missed calls and urgent text messages flooded his screen.

The final message was from his mother. "From this day on, consider Marina dead to you." Panicstricken, he raced back to the apartment, only to find the building charred and black, surrounded by yellow caution tape.

The neighbors were standing in clusters, whispering. "The fire was massive. They carried the poor girl out, and she wasn't even breathing.

Who knows if she made it." "Did you see the guy who carried her out? He looked absolutely terrified.

I guess she has a new boyfriend." Every drop of blood in Wayne's veins turned to ice.