I spent that night in a city shelter, lying on a metal cot, my abdomen pulsing with agony, my breasts already swelling with milk for a child I was not allowed to feed. I felt myself slipping into a darkness so deep it felt like drowning. But grief did not kill me. It sharpened me. There, rock bottom became the foundation under my feet.
Three days later, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a leather briefcase found me. He walked past the other women like he belonged there, though his crisp suit said otherwise.
“Excuse me. I am looking for Celina Rhodes.”
I sat up slowly. “I am Celina.”
He nodded stiffly. “My name is Russell Devereux. I am an estate attorney. I have been searching for you for several years. Your father, Gareth Rhodes, left behind substantial holdings. The legal disputes surrounding the estate have concluded. Everything is yours.”
I blinked, thinking exhaustion had twisted his words into fantasy. “I do not understand. My father was a mechanic. He had nothing.”