As Sophie and I waited for soup, a sleek black Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of the shelter. It looked absurd against the cracked pavement and flickering streetlight. An elderly woman stepped out, wrapped in a fur coat, pearls resting perfectly against her neck. Assistants hurried around her with umbrellas. She was clearly there to make a donation.
Then she looked at us.
Her face went pale.
“RACHEL?! And… my great-granddaughter?!” she cried.
My heart stopped.
It was Evelyn Harrington.
My great-grandmother. A wealthy woman who lived mostly in Europe. I hadn’t seen her in ten years, ever since my parents cut off all contact between us, insisting she’d “lost interest” in me.
She rushed toward us, ignoring the mud splashing onto her expensive shoes.
“Oh my God… Rachel. Sophie,” she sobbed, pulling us into her arms. “Why are you here? Why are you standing in line for food?”
“Grandma… we don’t have a home,” I whispered, breaking down. “We’re hungry.”
She pulled back, holding my face in her trembling hands. The warmth in her eyes hardened into fury.
“What do you mean, homeless?” she asked quietly. “Where are your parents? Where is my house?”
I shook my head, confused.
“What house?”