They looked less like grieving children and more like people arriving early for an inheritance meeting.
Which was strange, considering they hadn’t spoken to Grandpa Ray in years.
This was the same man who took me in after my parents threw me out at eighteen, called me a disappointment, and went on with their lives as though I had never existed.
But to understand why their appearance bothered me so much, you need to know what my childhood was like.
Growing up, I always knew I was the family disappointment.
I was the artistic kid in a house where achievement had to come with trophies, prestigious schools, impressive titles, or something my parents could mention at dinner parties.
My father, Henry, was a former military man who later became an insurance executive. He believed feelings were something you controlled, preferably without anyone noticing you had them.
My mother, Margaret, had once been a beauty queen. By the time I was growing up, her world revolved around charity lunches, expensive wine, social events, and maintaining the appearance of a perfect family.
Then there was my younger sister, Ava.
Ava was everything they wanted.
Excellent grades.
Cheer captain.
Homecoming queen.
Early college acceptance.
She was the daughter whose accomplishments appeared in Christmas letters.
I was the kid drawing dragons in the margins of my homework and hiding in the library during pep rallies so I could finish comic books.
At first, my parents called my art a hobby.
Then they called it a phase.
Eventually, they decided it was rebellion.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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