When my mom passed away two years ago, my world crumbled. She was my hero—my best friend and my everything. Cancer stole her from me when I was just fourteen, leaving me with no immediate family except for my Aunt Cheryl. Cheryl swooped in quickly, offering to take me in. At first, I thought she was my saving grace. Little did I know, she had no intention of being my guardian angel.
I was naive and grateful, thinking I’d finally find some stability in her big, beautiful house. But it didn’t take long to see the truth—Cheryl hadn’t taken me in out of love or kindness. She had her own motives, and they were far from noble.
Cheryl had three children: Maddie, her golden child at seventeen; Dylan, a mischievous thirteen-year-old; and Lucas, the spoiled nine-year-old. While they enjoyed the latest phones, designer clothes, and luxurious outings, I was shoved into the dusty attic, surrounded by old boxes and given a sagging mattress to sleep on.
From that moment, everything about my life in Cheryl’s house screamed inequality. I ate leftovers while Maddie flaunted her brand-new MacBook. Cheryl made sure I felt like an unwelcome burden, constantly reminding me how “lucky” I was.
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