CHAPTER THIRTEEN — Pride Is Expensive
Elara
The first job I kept was not the worst one.
That distinction mattered to me, even then.
It was ordinary. Predictable. A place where the floors were always clean and the expectations were quietly low. A small administrative office on the edge of the city, far from glass towers and names that carried weight. I answered phones. Filed documents. Smiled when required. Kept my head down.
It paid on time.
That alone felt like mercy.
I told myself it was temporary. Something to steady us while the ground finished shifting beneath our feet. I was newly responsible for everything that had once belonged to my parents—meals, schedules, calm, reassurance. The job gave structure to days that might otherwise collapse into grief.
So I stayed.
Weeks turned into months without ceremony. The work never changed. Neither did the way people spoke to me—politely distant, faintly dismissive, as if my presence were interchangeable with anyone else who could type quickly and not ask questions.
I learned how to become efficient in ways that left no mark.
At home, the apartment settled into a careful rhythm. Mornings were quiet. I woke before everyone else, brewed weak coffee, packed lunches that looked fuller than they were. My brothers adjusted the way children do—quickly on the surface, unevenly underneath. Lucas grew sharper, angrier in ways he tried to hide. Aaron grew observant, watching everything with eyes that missed nothing.
My mother existed in fragments. Some days she moved through the apartment with fragile determination, insisting on folding laundry or wiping counters that were already clean. Other days she stayed in bed, the illness pulling her inward until the world narrowed to breath and effort.
I did not talk about exhaustion.
That felt indulgent.
The job asked little of me beyond time, and I gave it freely. Pride made the exchange feel fair. I did not want sympathy. I did not want allowances. I wanted to prove—quietly, stubbornly—that we could still stand on our own.
Even if standing hurt.
There were moments when the effort showed.
I began skipping lunches without meaning to. Not dramatically. Just a habit of pushing food aside because there was something else to finish, someone else to help, another call waiting. My weight shifted subtly, clothes hanging looser. No one commented.
I liked that.
Being unnoticed felt safer than being seen as fragile.
At work, I learned the hierarchy quickly. Who mattered. Who didn't. Who could afford mistakes. Who absorbed them. I was careful never to be the latter. I arrived early. Left late. Corrected errors before they were noticed. When praise came, it was mild and infrequent.
When criticism came, it was sharper.
"You're too quiet," my supervisor said once, glancing up from a screen. "You should speak up more."
I nodded and said nothing.
What would I have said? That silence was cheaper? That being agreeable cost less than being assertive? That every raised voice felt like a luxury I could not afford?
Instead, I smiled. That seemed to satisfy her.
The months stretched. A year approached without announcement.
Pride became something heavier than dignity. It settled in my chest, a constant pressure that kept me upright and exhausted at the same time. I refused help instinctively, even when it was offered without condition. I learned how to redirect conversations, how to minimize struggle without lying outright.
"We're fine," I said often.
I said it until it almost sounded true.
There were days when I came home so tired my hands shook as I unlocked the door. I washed dishes slowly, deliberately, as if haste might crack something fragile inside me. I listened to my brothers talk about school, nodded in the right places, offered advice I wasn't sure I believed.
At night, I lay awake thinking about nothing specific. Just the weight of tomorrow pressing gently but insistently against my ribs.
I did not quit.
That was the point.
Quitting felt like failure, and failure felt dangerous. It felt like a door that, once opened, might not close again. So I stayed longer than was wise. Longer than was kind to myself.
Pride asked for payment in small increments. It took meals first. Then rest. Then softness.
It never asked outright. It simply waited until I offered.
By the time the year ended, I had changed without noticing. My emotions flattened, smoothed into something manageable. I stopped expecting acknowledgment. Stopped imagining advancement. The job was no longer temporary in my mind—it was a fixed point, a known quantity.
Stability, even uncomfortable stability, was something I clung to fiercely.
That was when the second job appeared.
Not because I was desperate.
Because I was tired of pretending endurance was the same as security.
The second place was louder. Less patient. A customer-facing role that demanded smiles with more urgency, politeness with less grace. I took it on evenings and weekends, telling myself it was practical. Efficient. Temporary.
Again.
I told myself I could handle it.
For a while, I did.
Two jobs left little room for thought. Days blurred. Weeks stacked on top of one another. I moved through them with mechanical precision, fueled by obligation and stubborn resolve. Pride whispered that this was strength—that bending without breaking counted as victory.
I believed it because I needed to.
There were moments—small, treacherous ones—when resentment flickered. When someone spoke to me as if I were careless, or slow, or replaceable. When a customer snapped their fingers instead of using my name. When I swallowed replies because peace was more valuable than truth.
Each time, pride tightened its grip.
Don't react.
Don't complain.
Don't show them anything.
At home, my brothers noticed the change before I did. Lucas asked fewer questions. Aaron watched me more closely, as if measuring something invisible. My mother worried quietly, her concern expressed in small gestures—an extra blanket, a cup of tea left on the counter.
I accepted them wordlessly.
Gratitude was allowed. Help was not.
The truth was simple and difficult: pride kept us afloat, but it also kept us small. It taught me how to endure without asking for more, how to survive without imagining better. It convinced me that wanting relief was the same as weakness.
By the time I realized how much it was costing me, the bill had already been accumulating for years.
But I paid it anyway.
After a year of holding everything together, pride stopped feeling noble.
It became necessary.