From Appalachian Dirt To Tech Heiress

My first life ended abruptly, with the screech of tires and the brutal impact of a car driven by my younger sister, Stella.

I had always been the compliant one, funding her endless "mistakes" and even giving her the man I loved, Matthew.

As I lay dying, the last thing I heard wasn't an apology, but my parents' voices telling the police, "She was the older sister; she should have been more understanding."

Their words, not the collision, were the ultimate betrayal.

Then, darkness. But not oblivion.

I woke up, seventeen again, surrounded by the familiar scent of pine and damp earth in our Appalachian home.

The horrifying map of my future, burned into my memory, was now a chance for a different path.

This time, I would never again seek their love. This time, I would live only for myself.

My first life ended with the screech of tires on wet asphalt.

Stella, my younger sister, was drunk behind the wheel. I had just paid off her credit card debt, another one of her "little mistakes" from living a life I could only fund but never join. I had even given up my boyfriend, Matthew, to her. She wanted him, so she got him.

The impact sent me flying. The last thing I heard wasn't an apology. It was my parents' voice, telling the police, "She was the older sister; she should have been more understanding."

Then, darkness.

When I opened my eyes again, I was seventeen, back in our small Appalachian house. The smell of pine and damp earth filled my lungs. The memories of that other life were burned into my mind, a perfect, horrifying map of what was to come.

I made a vow to my own soul. I would never again seek their love. I would live for myself.

Ten years. That's how long it had been since my parents, Debra and Andrew, left me here with Grandma. They went to Austin, Texas, for "better opportunities" and a new life. They took their city-born daughter, Stella, with them. I was the Appalachian dirt they wiped from their shoes.

Now, they were back. Grandma's funeral brought them.

Stella stood in the living room, a splash of bright, expensive color against the faded floral wallpaper. She wore designer clothes I knew cost more than our monthly grocery budget. She bragged about her private school, her friends, the city life I was never meant to see.

I had spent the morning preparing a meal. A brisket, smoked for twelve hours, the meat from a hog I had raised myself. The money from raising livestock was how I paid for my school supplies, my books, my future.

I placed the platter on the old wooden table. The meat was dark, tender, falling apart.

Stella wrinkled her nose.

"What is this? It looks so... unhygienic."

She poked it with a fork. "This is peasant food. I can't eat this."

Debra, my mother, immediately rushed to her side. "Of course, sweetie. We can go into town and get you something proper."

I didn't say a word. I sat down, took a large piece of the brisket for myself, and started to eat. It was good. I had worked hard for it.

Stella's eyes widened. Then, her face crumpled, and she burst into tears. It was a performance I knew all too well.

"Mommy! She's eating all the good meat! She did it on purpose! She's so selfish!"

Debra's face twisted with anger as she looked at me. "Jocelyn! How can you be so heartless? Your sister came all this way, and this is how you treat her?"

In my first life, I would have apologized. I would have given Stella my plate. I would have starved to make her happy.

This time, I just kept chewing. I savored the smoky flavor, the result of my own labor. I looked from Debra' s furious face to Stella' s fake tears.

Then I stood up, scraped the leftovers into a container for later, and walked to my room without another word. I could hear Debra's shrieks behind me, but they sounded distant, like a TV show in another room.

I closed my door and went to bed.

The next day, the story of my "heartlessness" was all over town. Debra and Stella made sure of it, telling anyone who would listen how I had hoarded food from my poor, grieving sister.

But this wasn't the city. This was a small, tight-knit community. They had watched me grow up. They knew I had raised that hog, butchered it, and cooked it myself. They had seen me working while my parents sent letters filled with excuses instead of money.

Mrs. Gable from the corner store stopped Debra mid-sentence. "Debra, that girl worked her fingers to the bone for that meal. Maybe if you'd been here, you'd know that."

The whispers turned on them. The story of their neglect was far more interesting than the story of my supposed selfishness. They were shamed into silence.

I knew what was coming next. In my past life, they sold my prize-winning 4-H show hog, Big Joe, to pay for their plane tickets back to Austin. It was my college fund, gone in an afternoon.

This time, I moved first.

Before they even woke up, I was at Pastor Michael's house. He was a good man who knew my situation better than anyone.

"Pastor," I said, "I need to sell Big Joe. I need the money for my school fees this year."

He didn't ask questions. He knew. He paid me a fair price, cash, and promised to pick up the hog that afternoon. I tucked the money deep into my pocket. My future was secure.

Later, my father, Andrew, found me by the empty pigpen. His face was a mixture of anger and shame.

"Jocelyn, where's the hog? We needed that money."

I looked him straight in the eye. "You needed it? When was the last time you sent a dime for my upkeep? For my school? For anything?"

He flinched. The flicker of guilt in his eyes was pathetic. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a crumpled, worn $20 bill. He pushed it into my hand.

"Here," he mumbled, not meeting my gaze. "For your... expenses."

It was the single largest sum of money he had ever given me. I took it.

A week later, I was in the back of their car, on my way to Austin. They had decided it was too shameful to leave me behind again. When we arrived at their sterile, suburban house, Debra' s hand was out before I even put my bag down.

"The money from the hog, Jocelyn. Hand it over. We need to cover the costs of you being here."

I counted out $500. "This is for one month's rent. For a spot on the enclosed patio. I'm not a freeloader."

Her eyes widened in offense.

"And," I added, my voice cold and even, "I'll need a written receipt. Every month. So there are no misunderstandings about my contributions."

She was furious, but she took the money.

The next day, a neighbor, Mrs. Henderson, came over with a welcome-to-the-neighborhood casserole. She smiled at me. "And who is this lovely young lady?"

Before Debra could speak, I stepped forward and offered my hand. "I'm Jocelyn, ma'am. I'm an orphan. Mr. and Mrs. Johns are my sponsors, kindly giving me a place to stay. It's so generous of them."

The look on Debra's face was priceless. Mrs. Henderson' s eyes filled with sympathy. My new identity was established. I was the poor, grateful orphan. They were the saints. Let them try to live up to it.