Chapter 1: Emerging From Isolation

2015

I always used to look forward to summer, the warmth of the sun on my skin and the endless possibilities that came with it. But now, here I am, lying on my bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. The weight of grief is suffocating, and I can't seem to shake it off.

My Gramps, my father's father, was my rock. He was the one who taught me how to ride a bike, and how to make the perfect grilled cheese sandwich. He was my confidant, the one I could always turn to when life got too overwhelming. But now, he's gone, and my world has turned upside down.

The ends of my hair tickle the sides of my neck, a constant reminder of the drastic decision I made in the throes of grief - cutting off my long locks without a second thought. It was an impulsive move, but somehow it felt right. Grief has a way of making us act without thinking, as long as it matches the pain we feel inside.

My grandfather's death was sudden and unexpected, and it's left me feeling empty and lost. For months, I've been trapped in a fog of depression, my days blending into each other in a monotonous cycle of sadness. I see the world through tinted glasses of gray, and the once bright and colorful world is now dull and lifeless.

There's a void inside me, slowly consuming me from within. It's a strange feeling of emptiness, spreading throughout my entire body, leaving me numb to the world around me. I don't want to face the reality that he's gone, that I'll never hear his voice or see his smiling face again. It's too painful to bear.

I find solace in the four walls of my bedroom, where I can hide away from the world and the pain that comes with it. It's big enough to hold all the memories I have of Gramps, and I don't need anything else. I don't want to leave the safety of my room, where I can pretend that everything is still okay.

My parents suggested seeing a therapist, but I couldn't bring myself to go past the fifth session. Talking about my pain only made it more real, and I didn't want to face it. I wanted to keep it locked away, hidden deep inside me where no one could see it. But the pain is always there, lurking just below the surface, waiting to come back and consume me once again. Since then, I isolated myself to where I could have my own safe space. Just me and my music.

The house that used to be my safe haven is now nothing but a painful reminder of everything that has been taken from me. I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to avoid any thoughts of that place. My hair falls in disarray around me, a symbol of my shattered life. It's been months since my Gramps passed away, but the wound in my heart still feels fresh.

My family thinks that talking to me will help me move on from this depressing stage, but they couldn't be more wrong. It's not that easy. Breathing fresh air outside only makes me feel suffocated. Every time I leave my room, I am reminded of all the things I've lost.

They try to encourage me to come out more often, but what's the point? Going out only serves as a temporary distraction from the painful reality. Even if I go out and do something, the knowledge that Gramps is gone will always come back to me, and the crushing sadness will start all over again.

Instead, I find solace in music. I have spent the past few months mastering classical pieces on the piano, music that my grandparents left for me. It's a way to keep their memory alive, to keep a part of them with me. The piano lies outside my door, covered in cloth, a painful reminder of my loss.

The same goes for my grandparents' house. It used to be my favourite place, a sanctuary where I could make memories with Gramps and Lizzy, my cousin. Now, it's just a place of pain, something I can't bring myself to visit. My mother has been urging me to go there, to face my pain, but I can't.

The house is a narrow-lot two-storey building with bulging grey edges and white walls, standing ten feet tall. The backyard is filled with flowers my grandmother grew, and there is enough land to grow trees and edible plants. My grandfather started the garden to make my grandmother feel less homesick when she moved from the Philippines.

It's painful to think of all the memories I made in that house, and how I will never be able to make any more with Gramps. I just want to stay in my room and listen to music, hoping to forget the pain even for a little while.

My grandfather's love for adventure was more than just a passion; it was an insatiable thirst that consumed him. He had inherited a vast fortune from his family, and he wasted no time in using it to fund his travels across the world. He would always return home with souvenirs from his journeys, tangible reminders of the places he had visited and the memories he had made.

But of all the countries he had visited, the Philippines was the one that held a special place in his heart. It was there that he had met my grandmother, a farmer's daughter living a simple life in the countryside. Despite the vast differences in their backgrounds, my grandfather was relentless in his pursuit of her. He wooed her with his chivalry, his sweet talk, and his unwavering determination to prove himself worthy of her love. And in time, she fell for him too.

They married, and for the first time in his life, my grandfather decided to put his wanderlust on hold. He settled down with my grandmother and brought her back to the United States with him. Together, they raised three children, the eldest of whom was my father, born of their love as a half-Filipino, half-American citizen.

But despite the happiness my grandparents had found together, their story was not without its share of pain. My grandmother had struggled to adjust to her new life in America, far from her family and the only home she had ever known.

And as the years went by, my grandfather's health began to fail him. 

And then, he was gone.

The sudden knock on my door brought me back to the present, but the memories of my grandparents lingered on. The ache in my chest was all too familiar, the pain of knowing that they were gone and I could never see them again. I longed for the comfort of their embrace, the sound of their voices, the memories we had made together. But all I had now were the souvenirs my grandfather had left behind, tangible reminders of a life that was now lost to me forever. 

I hear my mother's voice, but it's distant, like it's coming from underwater.

"Jade?" she says, her voice barely audible. I don't respond right away. I don't want to face her, don't want to look into her eyes and see the disappointment, the worry. But eventually, I turn my head to face the door, and my voice comes out weak and drained.

"Mom?"

She asks if she can come in, and I hesitate. Do I really want her to see me like this? Broken, empty, a shell of the person I used to be? But I don't have the energy to argue, so I say, "Yeah." I reach for the music player on my nightstand, turning down the volume to a dull hum. When I finally prop myself up, I see her standing in the doorway, her brown hair cascading down her shoulders, her face creased with concern.

She sits on the edge of the bed, facing me, and I can't help but notice how much she's aged. The wrinkles around her eyes, the slight sag of her skin. It's a reminder of how much time has passed, how much has changed. But she's still beautiful, and that thought only adds to the weight of my sadness.

"How are you, Jade?" she asks, her voice soft and tentative.

I shrug lazily, my eyes glued to the messy sheets covering my bed. "Fine...I guess."

I feel her gaze on me, searching for some hint of how I'm really feeling. But I can't give her that. I can't let her see the pain, the emptiness, the darkness that's taken over me.

"I miss you, Jade," she says suddenly, and her words cut through me like a knife. "I miss how you used to talk to me, tell me about your day, your problems. I miss your laughter. I miss having you with us at dinner..."

"But I always eat dinner with you," I say, my voice monotone, devoid of any emotion.

"Yes, but it's like you're not really there," she replies, and her voice breaks a little. "You're always shutting us down."

I don't say anything, don't want to argue, don't want to make it worse.

"Jade...I miss talking to you," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your father won't be home for a few weeks, and I don't have anyone to talk to."

I stare down at my crossed legs, the baggy shirt barely covering my skin. I feel like I'm suffocating, drowning in my own pain. And I can see it in her eyes, the exhaustion, the resignation. She's given up on me. And I can't blame her.

"You can always talk to Glenda," I suggested, my voice hollow with pain. My mind was clouded with grief and despair, and I couldn't bring myself to care much about anything else.

Glenda, our long-term house maid, had already grown affectionate towards us, but even her efforts to get me out of my room had failed.

I found myself playing with the sheets absentmindedly, my fingers tracing over the fabric as if it were the only thing keeping me grounded.

"I just really don't feel like talking. That's all," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, sweetie, it's just... I miss my daughter." Her voice wavered at the end, and I could see the tears brimming in her eyes. She tried to hold them back, but they spilled over, sliding down her cheeks like tiny rivulets of pain.

"Sweetie... I know..." Her words were careful, too careful, and I wondered if she truly understood what I was going through. "I know that I may never be able to understand the pain you're dealing with right now..." With that, I hesitated, unsure if I wanted her to continue.

"...but at least, let me be there for you so you could share your pain, honey." She managed to make me lift my face up to look at her, and I saw a flicker of something in her expression that made me feel like she truly cared.

"Honey, you can always talk to me. You should not keep your pain all to yourself... We-" She broke off suddenly, her shoulders heaving as she took a deep breath before continuing, "We miss Gramps, too..." Her eyes were slightly red, and I felt a pang of something deep inside me.

At the sound of his name, my heart clenched painfully in my chest, as if someone had reached in and squeezed it tight. The pain seeped into my every nerve, my every fiber, until I could feel it pulsing through my body like a living, breathing thing. And then, with no hesitation, I let the pain spread all over me, letting it consume me completely.

It was a feeling I had become all too familiar with over the past few months, a feeling of overwhelming grief and loss that had left me numb and empty inside. But now, with my mother's words echoing in my ears, something shifted inside me. The pain was still there, raw and unyielding, but I felt a faint glimmer of hope in the darkness.

My mother watched me with surprise as tears spilled down my face, warm droplets tracing their way down my numb cheeks. But before she could react, I was lunging forward, burying my face in her chest as sobs racked my body.

She held me tight, her arms enclosing me in a comforting embrace, and I felt the weight of all my grief and pain lift off me, if only for a moment. Her hands caressed my back in a gentle, soothing rhythm, murmuring soft words of comfort as I cried.

For months, I had bottled up my emotions, suppressing them in a desperate attempt to keep myself together. But now, in my mother's arms, I felt the dam finally burst, and every emotion I had held back came flooding out.

"There you go, sweetie. Let it all out... I'm here, I'm here," my mother whispered, her voice a soft murmur in my ear. Her other hand found its way to my head, gently running her fingers through my hair.

For a moment, I let myself bask in the warmth of her embrace, feeling the weight of my grief slowly lift off me. It was a small victory, but it was a victory.

My body was wracked with sobs as I clung to my mother, the tears streaming down my face in an unending torrent. The pain that I had been hiding for so long was finally bursting forth, a dam that could no longer contain the flood of emotions that I had been holding back for months.

My mother, always the empathetic one, held me close without a word, resting her chin on top of my head as she let me cry. I knew that, under any other circumstance, she would have been commenting on my sudden change of demeanor, but now she was content to just be there for me.

Through my tears, I managed to choke out the words that I had been holding back for so long. "I don't know what to do, mom... It hurts too much..."

She kissed the top of my head and held me even tighter, her comforting presence offering a small measure of solace in my time of need. I buried my face in her shoulder, staring blankly at the wall as I poured out all the emotions that I had been keeping from my parents.

Every last bit of water that my eyes produced was emptied, and as the sobs slowly subsided, I found myself lost in a sea of memories of my Gramps. My mother's embrace was the best comfort I had ever received, and I longed to linger in it just a bit longer.

But eventually, I had to let go, and my mother pulled away from me with a gentle smile. "Sweetie, I'm still here. You still have someone you can lean on..." Her words offered a glimmer of hope, but the pain still lingered, a constant ache in my heart that refused to be soothed.

*****

My mother's offer of tea was one that I couldn't refuse, even though it meant coming out of my room and facing the world again.

With a heavy heart, I dragged myself to the kitchen and slumped onto one of the chairs at the dining table, still reeling from the weight of my grief.

My mother was boiling a pot of water, but her eyes were fixed on me as I fidgeted with a crumpled tissue in my hands, trying to wipe away the tears that still lingered on my cheeks. She handed me another tissue and I reluctantly took it, feeling exposed and vulnerable in her presence.

The silence between us was deafening as we both avoided eye contact, each lost in our own thoughts. But eventually, my mother broke the ice with a gentle touch, reaching out to hold my hand and offer words of comfort.

"I'm really glad you're starting to open up to me, Jade," she said softly, her voice full of warmth and concern.

I didn't know how to respond. My emotions were a jumbled mess, and I felt like I couldn't even articulate what was going on inside me. But the way my mother looked at me, with such love and acceptance, made me feel like I could trust her with anything.

As she handed me a cup of tea, I noticed the small detail of the milk added to it, a gesture of care that warmed my heart. Taking a sip, I savored the familiar taste of tea mixed with milk, the way my grandfather used to make it for me.

The warmth of the tea seeped through my body, and for a moment, I felt a sense of peace. It was the first time I had felt anything close to calm since my grandfather had passed away. The sound of the boiling water, the clink of the cup on the saucer, the gentle hum of the refrigerator - all these ordinary sounds were suddenly so comforting.

With each sip, I felt my guard drop, and before I knew it, words were spilling out of my mouth, raw and unfiltered. It was the first time I had opened up to anyone about the depth of my pain, and as I spoke, I felt a weight lifting off my chest.

My mother listened, her eyes never leaving mine, and I knew then that I wasn't alone. Even in the darkest moments, she was there, ready to hold my hand and offer comfort. And for that, I was grateful.

"I'm sorry." The words fell from my lips, heavy with regret and pain. My mother's warm smile was a stark contrast to the turmoil raging inside of me. "I'm so sorry if I hadn't tried to reach out to you in the past months..."

Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over. If it wasn't for my mother's persistent efforts to pull me out of my self-imposed isolation, I would still be trapped in my room, drowning in my own despair. Now that I was finally out, guilt gnawed at my insides like a hungry beast.

"I never meant to shut you out," I whispered, setting my teacup down with trembling hands. Summoning all my courage, I lifted my gaze to meet my mother's. "I'm sorry, Mom. So sorry for everything."

She reached across the table to take my hand in hers, her touch soothing and comforting. "It's okay, sweetie. I completely understand."

But did she really? Could she truly understand the depths of my pain and the darkness that had consumed me?

"No," I shook my head, tears streaming down my face now. "If you hadn't persisted enough, I would still be locked up in my room, and now that I'm finally out, I couldn't bring myself up to tell you how sorry I am for isolating myself away from you."

The weight of my shame was crushing, threatening to drag me under. I struggled to keep my emotions in check, knowing that if I let go, I might never be able to pick up the pieces.

"I never really minded that, honey. I just really miss having you talk about your day and all... and you know I'm not getting any younger, the silence inside this house is quite boring me."

My mother's words were like balm to my wounded soul, and I let out a shaky laugh through my tears. "You sound like a teenager, Mom."

"And your dad won't be home for the next month so... I never really had someone to talk to," she continued, her voice wistful.

My heart sank at the mention of my father, and my mood soured instantly. I pushed my tea away, my appetite gone.

"He's always away," I said, my voice bitter.

"He's away because he has work," my mother defended, but we both knew that wasn't the real reason.

"He's away because of work, which I totally understand, but not making time for Gramps or even attend his funeral is another thing..."

My father's absence at my grandfather's funeral was a wound that refused to heal. How could he not spare a day or two to say goodbye to his own father? It was unfathomable, and it made my blood boil with anger.

"He should have been there," I said, my voice low and filled with venom.

"Jade, we talked about this," my mother chided gently.

"Yeah, whatever," I muttered, pulling away from the table and crossing my arms over my chest.

I couldn't stand the thought of how someone could put their work above their family, even in death. It was the ultimate betrayal, and it made me question everything I thought I knew about my father.

The burden of having a father consumed by his obsession with money was a constant weight on my shoulders. On the surface, he claimed to have noble intentions of helping those in poverty, offering them a glimmer of hope by providing a year's worth of support. But beneath that facade was a man who cared only for the profit he could reap from the volunteers.

My father's true nature became all too clear when he callously disregarded my grandfather's funeral. It was a stark reminder that, despite his supposed generosity, he didn't truly care about anyone but himself. He was willing to sacrifice his own family for the sake of his own ambitions, and the thought of it made my blood boil.

My grandfather had been a man of adventure, always seeking out new experiences and discoveries. My father followed in his footsteps, but for entirely different reasons. There was no joy or wonder in his travels, only the relentless pursuit of wealth.

The contrast between their motivations couldn't have been starker, and it was a bitter pill to swallow. The man who was supposed to be a role model, a mentor, had become an object of disdain. I couldn't help but wonder what my grandfather would think of his son's actions, and the thought filled me with a sense of anger and betrayal.

The truth was undeniable: my father was driven by money, and nothing else.

My father, the founder of the 'H.O.P.E' organization, which stood for 'Helping Others Prosper through Empowerment', is known to the world as a hero, a philanthropist, and a beacon of hope for the less fortunate. But to me, he is just a man who craves the spotlight and the money that comes with it.

When he started the organization, it was just a group of men with a mission to help people in need. But it wasn't because of a deep sense of compassion or empathy, it was for the validation and recognition that came with it.

He traveled to different countries, handing out aid and necessities to the people. But it was always done with a camera crew in tow, ready to capture every moment for publicity. He used his connections in the entertainment industry to earn more money and fame, turning his organization into a profitable business.

As the organization grew, so did his ego. He basked in the praises of others and reveled in the attention he received. It was never about the people he was helping, it was always about him and his image.

'H.O.P.E' may have saved countless lives and brought hope to many, but to me, it will always be a symbol of my father's insatiable thirst for fame and fortune.

The rules were pretty simple.

It was basically a group of extremely wealthy men to scout for volunteers with unique skills, train them for years, and send them out to the public to earn money while using a significant portion of their earnings to help those in need.

As one of the Founders, they should recruit their volunteers. A founder can have as many volunteers as they want. They journey around the world just to look for them. There's not any racial discrimination, as long as someone is capable, they can become a volunteer.

Recruiting for the organization is not just about selecting anyone, but rather finding those who possess unique talents or skills that could make them valuable to the cause. Singers, musicians, artists, writers, actors, and other creative individuals are highly sought after. It's a highly competitive process and those who make the cut are put through rigorous training programs that last for years.

My father's organization, H.O.P.E, has become more than just a charity, it's now a brand-new industry that's taking the world by storm. With a little push, it could even become the biggest talent industry in the whole world. But at what cost? The thought of my father profiting off of the talents of others, even if it's for a good cause, leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

For several years, the founders invest their time and resources to ensure their recruits are well-trained, even sending them to prestigious schools and learning centers to hone their skills. The founders bear the cost of their training and other expenses. When the recruits are deemed ready, they are dubbed 'volunteers' and dispatched to big cities like Los Angeles, New York, and Europe, where they are provided a platform to showcase their talents. Some founders build galleries to promote their artists' paintings while others secure record deals for musicians, holding concerts for a cause worldwide, effectively turning them into global celebrities with a fan base that translates to more income. For writers, some founders even publish their works.

Each volunteer is expected to earn a specific amount in a month.

Here's the catch. The funds collected by volunteers are divided as:

50% of the total earnings are directed back to the organization and channeled towards charitable causes such as supporting people in need, orphanages, and other charitable institutions.

30% of the funds go back to the founder who recruited the volunteer, compensating them for the investment of time and money on the volunteer.

Finally, the remaining 20% is allocated to the volunteer themselves.

Volunteers are not just signing a contract to serve the organization for five years, they're signing away their lives. Five years may seem like a short amount of time, but when you're in the thick of it, it's a lifetime. The organization becomes your everything. Your identity, your purpose, your life. And all the while, the founders sit on their thrones, basking in the glory of their power and wealth, while the volunteers, suffer.

But after five years of servitude, they're given a choice. A choice that's supposed to be liberating, but feels more like a trap. Renew their contract, and become an official member of the organization, with all the power and privilege that comes with it. Or choose their own path, and risk being cut off from the only life they've ever known, with no support or guidance.

As a Legacy-in-Training -that's what they call the offspring of the founders- I'm supposed to carry on my father's legacy and inherit his position as the head of the organization. But I don't want to be like him. I don't want to be obsessed with money and power. But the weight of my responsibility is crushing. At only 18 years old, I'm expected to recruit for the organization, to find people who are willing to give up their lives for this cause. It's a heavy burden to bear.

I can still remember my grandfather's voice, though. His words, "Money can't control everything. It is the heart that knows everything," echo in my mind. I wish he were still here, to guide me, to help me find my own way. But he's gone, and I'm left to navigate this treacherous path on my own.