When my mom passed away two years ago, my world shattered into a million pieces. She was my hero. Cancer stole her from me when I was just fourteen, leaving me without any immediate family except my Aunt Cheryl. Cheryl swept in quickly, almost too quickly, offering to “graciously” take me in, but she had ulterior motives.
“You’re family, Jenna,” she said, her lips curled in a strained smile. “And family takes care of their own.”
At first, I thought I was lucky. Aunt Cheryl and her family had a big, beautiful house, and I thought I’d finally have some stability after all the chaos. But I was naive. I didn’t know the truth then—that my aunt didn’t take me in out of love.
She took me in for something much darker.
My aunt had three children: Maddie, the “perfect” seventeen-year-old; Dylan, the thirteen-year-old prankster; and Lucas, the whiny, spoiled nine-year-old. They started living in luxury when I arrived—latest phones, brand-name clothes, and weekly family outings to expensive restaurants.
“Why can’t I stay in the guest room downstairs?” I asked on my first night.
Cheryl shot me a look. “Don’t start, Jenna. We don’t have the space.
Every meal was a leftover plate I was expected to microwave myself! Every trip to the mall was a lecture about how “money doesn’t grow on trees,” but somehow Maddie always walked away with new shoes or a shiny new piece of jewelry.
