But fate had turned. New evidence came to light. I hadn’t taken Chelsea. I hadn’t killed her. Someone else had. My name was cleared, and I was released—but no one from my family came to meet me at the gates. No one even called.
Still, I hoped. I hoped it was Phyllis who’d posted my bail. I hoped he’d be the one waiting beyond the gate, arms open. He had once been my lifeline, the reason I hadn’t given up in that hell.
Instead, the family car pulled up hours later, headlights glaring through the snowfall. My heart leapt, foolish and fragile. The door opened, and my father emerged—rigid and emotionless.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “I have no daughter like you. Leave.”
His voice held no anger now. Just absence.
Then came my mother. Her eyes found mine, and for a heartbeat, I saw softness—regret, even.
But she turned away.
“The council’s letter arrived,” she said to my father.
“She won’t be staying here,” he replied. “She’ll be relocated soon.”
Just like that, they left. Again.
Tears pricked my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall. I was done begging.