When my parents died, I was ten years old and certain the world had simply stopped moving.
It was winter—the kind that dulls sound and color until everything feels distant. Snow lined the roads, and later people would talk about black ice and poor visibility, as if explanations could soften loss. My parents, Claire and Michael, left the house that night and never came home. By morning, our life was already being spoken of in past tense.
At the funeral, I stood beside a closed casket in a borrowed coat that didn’t fit my body or my grief. That’s when my aunt Linda arrived—my father’s sister. She cried loudly, hugged me tightly, and made sure everyone noticed.
“I’ll take Ethan,” she announced. “Of course I will.”
She said it like a rescue. Like I owed her gratitude.
At her house, the performance ended. I was given a small room in the back—no bed, just a thin mattress on the floor and a blanket that smelled like dust. Her kids slept in bunk beds with real sheets and shelves of toys. I learned to be quiet. Invisible.
The first night, I asked about my things—clothes, photos, my parents’ books.
“Later,” Linda said, already leaving. “You don’t need much.”
Later never came.
I didn’t know then that my parents had left money for me. Not a fortune—just enough to protect my future. Savings. Insurance. A plan. Linda knew. Linda handled it.
Soon after, the kitchen was remodeled. A new car appeared. Piano lessons, tutors, tennis for my cousins. When I asked—carefully—if it came from my parents’ money, Linda didn’t even look at me.
Continue reading on the next page…