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Three Roads Diverged in a Dark Woodwas inspired by a poem I read in middle school by Robert Frost:The Road Not Taken. In his poem, the person had two options to choose from.In my painting, there were three options. Why? Because aside from the lovely and ugly roads in front of me, there was also one thatIcreated on my own. The third road was a reality that came to fruition as a result of it. No one presented it to me—that was the difference.

When I finished the varnish, I placed it inside a makeshift tent I created in the far corner of the studio. The tent kept the dust from falling onto the varnish.I’d send it off this week, and Edgar would pay the balance.

With this payment, I could fulfill the two million dollars to Leo Rossi, who owned the Bread and Butter restaurant in Boston. I met him at a party when one of my clients offered me a ticket to an exclusive club. I thought I’d network for more potential clients, but I overheard the two men discussing how to break someone out of prison. The conversations at that club terrified me. Crimes were negotiated and conducted there. I was one of them when I hired Leo to extract my mom.

I’d driven up to Boston to visit him at his restaurant. Did I fear he’d take my money and not help me? Yes. So I took detailed notes about him and his restaurant in case something happened to me. But Leo was my only hope. He’d sold me a believable plan. Leo claimed he knew people in The Women’s Facility who could make the extraction go smoothly. Research on The Women’s Facility revealed that three inmates had escaped successfully. The information was swept under the rug. He also claimed he knew someone from the media and the governor’s office who would help him keep everything out of the public eye.

Two million dollars was a lot of money, but I’d pay anything for my mother’s freedom. I also had to save up so we could move elsewhere to start over. Buy a house and live a simple life.

Feeling accomplished, I grabbed my sketchbook to brainstorm ideas for the First Lady. I held my pencil and drew quick sketches, but none of them called to me. I found a fewpictures of Madeline Claude-Collins to inspire me, but I wasn’t in the mood. Sometimes, art had its own mind. I couldn’t force it. The most extraordinary art was usually created when it came naturally.

Putting the sketchbook down, I filled the water pitcher and watered the plants on the metal rack and windowsill.

If I had become a botanist or a horticulturist, I wouldn’t have made enough money to help my mom. The salary couldn’t compare to what I could demand for my original art. However, I worked for the American Horticultural Society, documenting data while painting on the side until my art sold well. When Nessa Lambert became popular, Vanessa Lam stepped to the side.

I open the letter and jump with joy! Harvard University has offered me a full scholarship for my masters in their Botany Program. Tears stream down my face as I hold the letter to my chest.

M?is going to be thrilled! This is a huge financial relief for us. She doesn’t make a lot of money as the front desk receptionist for a hair salon. She also volunteers at local shelters. It’s been hard the past four years because I was in Maine for college and only came home during the summer.

Now she can drive into Boston to visit me. I can even commute from home. I’m not sure yet. My mind races with various scenarios to save more money. I don’t want my mom to work so hard anymore. She’s been through a lot.

To be honest, I’m surprised she wanted me. I wasn’t conceived because my parents loved each other. My mom was raped. She was a sophomore in college when she was kidnapped and forced into prostitution for several years. She didn’t know she was pregnant until after she escaped with two other women.

When she came home, her mom and dad and uncle were dead. People said they were in a car accident while searching for her. But she told me it was probably her kidnappers who wanted to stop her family from looking for her. Their deaths were also a warning for her. She had escaped and knew things about their underground work.

My mom is a smart woman, and she also got a scholarship to Harvard University. But she never got to attend. She survived all those years in the prostitution ring by helping the handlers organize their finances.

Now she tries to live a simple life, but I know she’s always suspicious of people and overprotective of me. I understand where she’s coming from, and I try to be as responsible as possible.

Today is a great day, and I want to deliver the good news to my mom. The Wild Streak is only a few blocks from our apartment. I slip on my sneakers andjean jacket because the weather is still chilly for late March. I’m in Providence for the weekend because Mom called a few days ago about a letter waiting for me.

Tucking the letter into my jacket, I head down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. Mom still has another hour before her shift ends. She’s only working half a day so she can spend time with me while I’m home. The image of the delicious Vietnamese sub on the window makes my stomach growl. I walk into Saigon Bistro to order my mom her favorite teriyaki Vietnamese sub. I also get one for myself. Then I enter the hair salon, waving at my mom and her coworkers, who are all friendly women.

“Almost done, baby,”M?says.

“No rush.”

Marge, the owner of the hair salon, emerges from the back room and rushes up to me. “Hi, Vanessa. How’s everything? I hear you’re loving it at UME.”

“I am.”

“You’re making your mom very proud.”

I want to share my good news but decide to wait. Mom needs to be the first person to hear it.

When we leave, I lift the bag. “Guess what I got for us to celebrate?”

“Celebrate what?” Mom turns down a shortcut we often take to get home. It’s an alleyway that cuts through several brick buildings.

“I got accepted to Harvard on a full scholarship, Mom!” I squeal.

Mom throws her arms around me, and we hug for a moment.

Then, someone shoves us, and our bodies slam against the wall.

“Where’s your money?” barks a man with ascar on his lip and a tattoo of a flying pig on his neck. He aims a knife at us. But he’s drunk, and he’s swaying.

His friend with the mustache rakes a gaze down my body. They reek of alcohol. Fear twists my stomach as Mom wraps a protective arm around me.