Harrison didn’t bother with my mother’s soft tone, leaning against the doorframe with a look of pure, unadulterated disdain. “This household does not reward charity cases or freeloaders, and you will be finding your own path the very second you turn eighteen,” he said firmly.
I spent many long, sweltering nights staring at the slanted ceiling of my attic room, feeling utterly invisible and wondering if I was truly worth nothing to the only parent I had left. My world shifted on a rainy Tuesday afternoon when my phone buzzed with an unrecognized number from a small, quiet town in Vermont.
“Elara? It is your Aunt Josephine, your father’s older sister,” the voice said, sounding so much like my dad that I nearly choked on my own breath.
My mother had strictly forbidden me from contacting that side of the family, claiming they were toxic people who only wanted our money. Josephine told me there was a legacy my father had left in her secret care because he had never fully trusted my mother’s intentions.