Less than two years later, I found myself standing in a pristine and soulless marble foyer in a wealthy suburb of Phoenix with a single suitcase in my grip. My mother had married a man named Harrison Vane, a high-ranking executive who looked at me as if I were a permanent stain on his expensive flooring.
Harrison’s son, a boy named Justin, was immediately handed the keys to a luxury SUV and granted the largest suite in the house with a balcony overlooking the pool. I was ushered into a cramped, converted attic space above the laundry room that lacked proper insulation and featured a window no larger than a dinner plate.
When I finally worked up the courage to ask my mother about my college fund, she didn’t even bother to look away from her reflection in the vanity mirror. She informed me that my father’s life insurance money had been folded into the family’s new assets and that Justin’s private university tuition was the current priority.