My mom died when I was ten. Dad held it together for a few years, but when I was fourteen, he married her — Cheryl. The woman who smiled too wide when people were watching and snapped too fast when they weren’t. She never raised a hand to me, but she never let me forget I wasn’t hers. When Dad died of a sudden heart attack five years later — I was just nineteen — Cheryl didn’t even wait for the funeral flowers to wilt. Two days later, she stood at the top of the stairs with her arms crossed and said, “YOU’RE NOT FAMILY ANYMORE. GET OUT.” No sympathy. No warmth. Just ice. I left with a duffel bag and my guitar. That night, I crashed on my best friend’s couch, staring at the ceiling, wondering how grief could burn and freeze at the same time. The next morning, I went to take some more of my stuff. But when I came to the house I was raised in and built by my great-grandfather, there were five black SUVs parked outside. My stomach dropped. I thought maybe Cheryl had called security to keep me away. But when I rang the bell, the door creaked open and Cheryl looked like she’d seen death itself. “Oh! You’re here!” she said, her voice suddenly syrupy. “I was just… just about to call you, sweetheart.” I blinked. “What’s going on?”