‎My mother called me a “selfish spinster” for refusing to gift my house to my sister for her wedding. She even grabbed my keys from my purse, declaring my fully paid-off condo now belonged to the family. My sister laughed and spilled wine on my blouse. “A lonely loser like you doesn’t deserve luxury,” she sneered. The next morning, they showed up to claim it—confident they’d won… without knowing who I really was

Tessa was still pressed against my front door, one manicured hand clutching the strap of her designer purse, the other gripping the stem of her cheap plastic wine cup so hard I thought it might crack. The red stain on my blouse was already drying against the silk, cold and sticky against my skin. My feet ached from ten hours in the trauma ward, and my head throbbed with the kind of exhaustion that made most people cry.

But I wasn’t most people anymore.

I was done crying for them.

I adjusted my purse on my shoulder and looked at my mother as if she were a stranger I had been forced to tolerate for too long.

“You’re right about one thing,” I said quietly. “I wouldn’t dare do this to my own blood.”

My mother blinked, hope flashing across her face.

Then I stepped aside and nodded toward the elevator at the end of the hall.

“I’d only do it to people who stopped being family years ago.”

Tessa let out a sharp laugh, but it sounded brittle.

“Oh, please. Stop acting dramatic, Maya. You didn’t sell anything. You’re just trying to scare us because you know you can’t stand up to Mom.”

I tilted my head.

“Really?”