When Ellie loses her father, she expects grief, not betrayal. Kicked out of her childhood home by the woman who never wanted her, she makes one desperate call. But what waits on the other end isn’t pity but power.
And the next morning, everything shifted in ways she never saw coming.
When my mom died, I was ten. My dad did what he could; he really did.
He made French toast on Sundays, left notes in my lunchbox, and cried when he thought I wasn’t watching. He was broken from the grief…
but he was still my dad.
Cheryl showed up when I was 14. She wore perfume that gave me headaches and smiles that never seemed to reach her eyes when I was around. Dad thought she was warm and radiant.
And to be honest, she did put on a perfect performance for him.
But I knew better. Her kindness had conditions.
And I never met one of them. Still, I tried.
For him…
he deserved joy. When he died five years later, it felt like the last piece of the world I knew collapsed. It was a sudden heart attack, no warning, and of course, no goodbye.
I was barely 19, just out of high school, still figuring out what to do with my gap year and how to go to the dentist alone…
and now I was orphaned. I hadn’t even celebrated my birthday because it was a week after my father died.
The funeral hadn’t even ended when Cheryl started treating me like a guest in my childhood home. She moved through the house when it was already hers, throwing out Dad’s old magazines and replacing the framed family photos with hers.
I caught her once, scrubbing his name off the mailbox.
She didn’t even flinch when she saw me watching, she just rinsed off the brush in a bucket of soapy water. “Eleanor,” she said, her voice like the snap of a winter branch. “You’re not exactly family anymore, you know?
So, it’s time to get out.”
I didn’t argue.
What would’ve been the point? So, I packed a duffel bag.
In went a pair of boots, a few shirts and jeans, underwear, and toiletries. I grabbed my guitar.
I walked past the coat rack where my dad’s scarf still hung, and I didn’t dare touch it.
I couldn’t. That night, I stayed on my best friend’s couch. “Of course, you can stay here, Ellie,” Katie said.
“My home is yours.”
She left a blanket and a glass of water on the side table.
We didn’t talk about it. We didn’t have to.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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