Chapter 1
The day my father tried to throw me out of our house, he made one mistake.
He forgot to ask who actually owned it.
My name is Maya Bennett. I was twenty-two years old when my father grabbed my suitcase and shoved it across our marble living room floor.
"YOU'RE TWENTY-TWO! IT'S TIME TO MOVE OUT!"
The suitcase struck the front door.
I rushed forward and grabbed its handle.
"I live here too!"
My father, Marcus Bennett, stood over me in his navy T-shirt, his fists clenched.
"You're grown, Maya. Get your own place."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
I worked forty hours a week.
I paid for groceries.
I covered the electricity bill.
And for eight months, I'd been secretly paying part of the mortgage whenever my father claimed money was tight.
Yet he stood there looking at me as though I were a lazy stranger occupying his property.
"Dad, I contribute to this house!"
He pointed toward the door.
"Then you can contribute somewhere else."
My throat tightened.
"Where am I supposed to go?"
"That's your problem."
Those four words hurt more than his shouting.
Because this wasn't some random landlord.
This was my father.
The man who taught me to ride a bicycle.
The man who carried me to bed when I fell asleep watching cartoons.
The man who promised my mother he'd always protect me.
Now he wouldn't even look at my face.
I glanced at my two packed suitcases.
I'd found them waiting outside my bedroom after returning from work.
My clothes had been stuffed inside without being folded.
A framed photograph of my late mother lay between two sweaters.
Its glass was cracked.
I had stared at that photograph for several minutes before carrying the luggage downstairs.
My mother, Danielle, died when I was fourteen.
Afterward, our family never felt the same.
Dad became quieter.
Then angrier.
He started blaming me whenever anything went wrong.
If the electricity bill increased, I used too much power.
If groceries ran out, I ate too much.
If he had a difficult day at work, I was disrespectful for asking questions.
Still, I stayed.
Because somewhere inside that angry man, I believed my father was still there.
"Dad, please."
My voice broke.
"I just need time."
He shook his head.
"You've had enough time."
Then he reached for my second suitcase.
Before he could touch it, a voice thundered from the hallway.
"MARCUS!"
We both turned.
Grandma Evelyn stood near the staircase.
Her long gray-streaked locs were pulled behind her shoulders.
She wore a burgundy dress and carried the handbag she never went anywhere without.
I'd never seen her look so furious.
"What exactly do you think you're doing?"
Dad exhaled.
"Mom, stay out of this."
Grandma stepped forward.
"Not while you're throwing my granddaughter into the street."
He folded his arms.
"She's twenty-two. She needs to grow up."
Grandma looked at my suitcases.
Then at my tearstained face.
"Who packed those?"
Dad shrugged.
"I did."
Her expression hardened.
"Without asking her?"
"Mom, she's been living here long enough."
Grandma moved between us.
"She's been working."
"That doesn't matter."
"She's been helping with bills."
"She's my daughter. That's what she's supposed to do."
I felt tears spill down my cheeks.
Grandma turned toward me.
"Maya, sweetheart, have you eaten today?"
The question nearly broke me.
Nobody had asked me that in weeks.
I shook my head.
Grandma gently touched my shoulder.
Then she turned back toward Dad.
"She contributes more than you think."
He laughed bitterly.
"Oh, please."
Grandma didn't move.
"Marcus, how much did you pay toward the mortgage last month?"
His face changed.
"What?"
"You heard me."
He looked irritated.
"Mom, this is my house."
Grandma went completely still.
For several seconds, she simply stared at him.
Then she slowly opened her handbag.
I watched her remove a thick cream envelope.
Dad frowned.
"What's that?"
Grandma pulled out a folded document.
Then she pressed it firmly against his chest.
"No, Marcus."
Her voice was quiet.
Almost frighteningly quiet.
"This is my house."
Dad blinked.
"What?"
Grandma unfolded the document.
"And Maya's name was added to the deed last year."
I froze.
My name?
On the deed?
Dad stared at the paper.
"That's impossible."
Grandma pointed to the signatures.
"Read it."
He grabbed the document.
His eyes moved down the page.
Then back to the top.
His face slowly drained of color.
I stood beside my suitcases, unable to speak.
Grandma had asked me to sign estate-planning documents the previous year.
She told me they were part of protecting our family's property.
But I hadn't understood that my name had actually been added as an owner.
Dad looked up.
"You did this behind my back?"
Grandma's expression didn't change.
"I arranged ownership of my property."
He shook his head.
"Dad left this house to me!"
Grandma's voice sharpened.
"Your father left it to me. You were permitted to live here."
Dad stared at her.
Then at me.
His jaw tightened.
"She's manipulating you."
Grandma took one step closer.
"No, Marcus. I finally stopped letting you manipulate both of us."
The room fell silent.
I could hear my own breathing.
Dad lowered the paper.
"Mom, you can't do this."
Grandma looked toward the front door.
Then pointed directly at it.
"So if someone has to leave tonight..."
She paused.
My father's expression changed from anger to fear.
Grandma finished quietly.
"It won't be the granddaughter who helped keep this roof over our heads."
I stared at her.
Then at Dad.
For the first time in years, he had nothing to say.
But the silence didn't last.
His phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
I saw a woman's name.
Vanessa.
Not my mother.
Not a coworker.
A woman I'd never heard of until three months earlier.
Dad quickly turned the phone facedown.
Grandma noticed.
"Is that the woman you've been giving our money to?"
My stomach dropped.
Dad's eyes widened.
"What money?"
Grandma reached into her handbag again.
And this time, she removed a bank statement.
"Maya," she said gently, "there's something your father has been hiding from you."
I looked at the paper.
Then at the man who had just tried to throw me out.
May you like
And suddenly, I understood that our argument hadn't really been about me growing up.
My father wanted me gone because he was terrified I'd discover where my money had been going.
