When my mom passed away two years ago, my world shattered. She was my hero, my best friend, my everything. Cancer took her from me when I was just fourteen, leaving me with no family except for Aunt Cheryl. She quickly offered to take me in, and at first, I thought it was my chance for a fresh start. But soon, I realized Cheryl wasn’t the guardian angel I’d hoped for.
“You’re family, Jenna,” Cheryl said with a forced smile. “And family takes care of their own.”
I was naive, thinking that her beautiful house would bring stability, but it didn’t take long to see the truth—Cheryl had no interest in caring for me. She had her own plans, and they didn’t include kindness.
Cheryl had three children: Maddie, her perfect seventeen-year-old; Dylan, a rebellious thirteen-year-old; and Lucas, a spoiled nine-year-old. While they had the latest gadgets and luxury items, I was shoved into the dusty attic with a sagging mattress.
“Why can’t I stay in the guest room?” I asked, my voice tentative.
Cheryl’s eyes narrowed. “You should be grateful I took you in. Don’t complain.”
From that moment, everything in Cheryl’s house screamed inequality. I ate leftovers while Maddie paraded her new MacBook. Cheryl made sure I knew how “lucky” I was.
One day, while doing homework in the attic, I overheard Cheryl downstairs. “The money’s helping all of us, Eric. She doesn’t need half of it,” she said. Her words made no sense at the time, but they stuck with me.
On my sixteenth birthday, I wasn’t expecting a celebration, but I thought they might acknowledge it. Instead, Maddie got a shiny new laptop, and Cheryl doted on her.
“Isn’t today my birthday?” I asked quietly.
Cheryl shot me an irritated look. “Maddie needed it for school. Be thankful for what you have.”
No cake. No gift. Not even a “happy birthday.” Tears burned my eyes as I retreated to the attic. Later, Cheryl took her kids out for a celebratory lunch—for Maddie, not me.
Alone in the house, I was startled by a knock on the door. I opened it to find a tall woman with piercing gray eyes.
“Are you Jenna?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied, wary. “Who are you?”
“My name is Olivia. I worked with your mother,” she said. “I’m here because of her.”
My heart skipped. “You knew my mom?”
“Yes,” Olivia replied, stepping inside. “Before she passed, she asked me to look out for you. Can we talk?”
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