When my mother, my rock, passed away from cancer, my world shattered. At just 14, I was left with no immediate family except Aunt Cheryl, who “graciously” took me in. Her words, “You’re family, and family takes care of their own,” felt reassuring, but they masked her true intentions.
At first, life in her beautiful house seemed promising. But soon, the cracks appeared. Cheryl’s three kids enjoyed luxuries—new gadgets, expensive outings—while I was crammed into the dusty attic, surviving on leftovers. Any complaints were met with, “Be grateful I even remembered!”
The truth hit on my 16th birthday. While Maddie unwrapped a shiny MacBook, I got nothing but scorn. Later that day, a knock at the door introduced Olivia, a woman who had worked with my mother. “Your mom left you a trust fund,” she revealed, “but your aunt has been spending it.”
