Chapter 1
I slammed my phone onto the dining table so hard that the water glasses jumped.
"STOP LETTING HER TREAT ME LIKE I DON'T BELONG HERE!"
My father turned toward me.
His face hardened.
"Maya, watch your mouth!"
I stared at him.
For twenty-two years, I had been Marcus Carter's daughter.
I knew his moods.
I knew when he was tired.
I knew when his business was struggling.
And I knew the exact expression he wore whenever he thought I was being disrespectful.
But this time, I wasn't backing down.
"I'm your daughter, Dad!"
My voice cracked.
"Why am I always the problem?"
He stepped closer.
"Because you keep coming into this house causing arguments!"
I almost laughed.
Causing arguments.
That was what he called asking why my bedroom had been emptied without my permission.
That was what he called discovering that my stepmother had changed the locks while I was away at college.
And that was what he called finding out Denise had told our relatives I was a selfish young woman who only came home when I needed money.
I pointed at the phone.
"Look at what she sent me!"
Dad glanced at it.
Then looked away.
"I don't want another fight."
My chest tightened.
"That's exactly the problem!"
He frowned.
"What?"
"You never want a fight when she's hurting me!"
Before he could answer, footsteps sounded behind us.
Denise stormed into the dining room.
Her shoulder-length curls bounced against her beige blouse.
She looked annoyed.
Not surprised.
Almost as if she'd been waiting for this moment.
"What is all this screaming?"
I turned toward her.
"You know exactly what this is about."
She folded her arms.
"Oh, please."
Dad rubbed his forehead.
"Denise, we're talking."
She ignored him.
Her eyes remained fixed on me.
"You're twenty-two years old, Maya."
I swallowed.
"And?"
"You're grown. Nobody owes you anything."
The words hit harder than I expected.
I looked toward Dad.
"Did you hear that?"
He remained silent.
Denise continued.
"You come back from college acting like this house is some kind of hotel."
I stared at her.
"I haven't lived here for free!"
She laughed.
"Really?"
"I paid for groceries. I paid the internet bill. I helped with Dad's business while I was in school."
Denise rolled her eyes.
"And you want a medal?"
My hands shook.
I had spent four years trying to make her like me.
Four years.
When Dad married her, I was eighteen.
My mother, Jasmine, had died when I was thirteen.
For five years, it had been just Dad and me.
We weren't perfect.
But we were close.
Then Denise arrived.
She was charming.
Beautiful.
Always smiling in front of other people.
She told Dad she wanted to build a family.
I wanted to believe her.
I wanted him to be happy again.
So I welcomed her.
I helped plan their wedding.
I bought her flowers on Mother's Day.
I even called her when I needed advice about college.
But the moment Dad wasn't around, she became someone else.
She criticized my clothes.
My friends.
My education.
The way I spoke.
The way I laughed.
She told me I was spoiled.
Then she told Dad I was difficult.
At first, he defended me.
Eventually, he stopped.
And I learned what it felt like to become a stranger in the house where I'd grown up.
Now Denise stood between us with that familiar expression.
Smug.
Confident.
Certain Dad would choose her version of the truth.
"She needs to learn responsibility," Denise announced.
I looked at Dad.
"You're really going to let her talk to me like that?"
He looked from me to his wife.
Something in his expression changed.
He had been angry when I raised my voice.
But now his eyes were narrowing.
Not at me.
At Denise.
"Wait a minute."
She frowned.
"What?"
Dad stepped toward her.
"You don't get to disrespect my daughter in her own home."
I froze.
My own home.
I hadn't heard him call it that in years.
Denise gave a sharp laugh.
"Marcus, don't start."
He didn't move.
"She's my daughter."
"And I'm your wife!"
"I know exactly who you are."
Her eyes flashed.
"Then act like it!"
Dad looked at her.
"What does that mean?"
Denise pointed at me.
"It means I'm tired of competing with a grown woman for my husband's attention!"
I stared at her.
Competing?
I wasn't asking Dad to take me shopping.
I wasn't demanding expensive gifts.
I was asking him to stop letting his wife humiliate me.
Denise moved closer.
"She needs to understand that your marriage comes first."
Dad's jaw tightened.
"Not at the expense of respecting my child."
Her face twisted.
"Then choose!"
The room fell silent.
Denise lifted her chin.
"Your grown daughter or your marriage."
I stopped breathing.
For one terrible second, I was eighteen again.
Standing beside Dad at his wedding.
Smiling through tears because I thought someone new was joining our family.
I remembered Denise promising she would love me like her own.
Now she was demanding that my father choose whether I belonged.
Dad stared at her.
His face became strangely calm.
Then he pointed toward the hallway.
"Easy."
Denise blinked.
"What?"
"Pack your bags."
I felt my knees weaken.
Denise laughed.
It sounded forced.
"You're joking."
Dad shook his head.
"No."
Her face went pale.
"You're kicking ME out?"
He stepped beside me.
"I'm done being treated like an ATM while you disrespect my child."
I stared at him.
My eyes filled.
For years, I had wanted him to stand beside me.
Now he finally was.
Denise looked between us.
Her mouth opened.
Then closed.
But as she slowly turned toward the hallway, I saw something in her expression.
Not just anger.
Fear.
And suddenly, I remembered the message that had started our argument.
The one I had slammed onto the table.
The one Dad still hadn't read.
Because Denise hadn't only told me to leave.
May you like
She had made a claim about my mother's house.
And if that message was true, the argument we had just survived was only the beginning.
