Chapter 6
I stared at Brianna.
My mother's will.
Changed?
For years, Diane told me Mom had left everything to Dad because I was too young to inherit anything.
Now my stepsister was standing in the garage, crying about a letter I had never seen.
I forced myself to speak.
"Where is it?"
Brianna looked toward the house.
"Mom keeps it in her office."
My heart pounded.
"Did you read it?"
She nodded.
"Some of it."
Grandpa moved closer.
"Tell us what you remember."
Brianna wiped her cheeks.
"It says Maya shouldn't be forced to depend on anyone who makes her feel unwanted."
My throat tightened.
That sounded exactly like Mom.
Brianna continued.
"It says she wanted Maya to have a home of her own when she turned eighteen."
I looked at Grandpa.
His expression changed.
"A home?"
I swallowed.
"What home?"
Brianna hesitated.
"The house near Lake Lanier."
My heart stopped.
I knew that house.
Mom used to take me there every summer.
It was small, with blue shutters and a wooden porch overlooking the water.
We planted flowers together.
We watched lightning bugs after sunset.
Mom always said the house was our special place.
After she died, Dad told me it had been sold to pay medical expenses.
I cried for weeks.
Now my hands began shaking.
"Are you saying it wasn't sold?"
Brianna shook her head.
"I don't think so."
Grandpa took out his phone.
He called Olivia Grant.
Within minutes, she began checking property records.
I stood in the garage holding Mom's photograph.
I didn't know whether to hope.
Hope had disappointed me too many times.
Then Grandpa's phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
And looked at me.
His eyes filled.
"Maya, the lake house is still owned by your mother's trust."
I stopped breathing.
"What?"
He nodded.
"It was never sold."
Tears spilled down my cheeks.
For six years, I had believed the last place I shared with Mom was gone.
All that time, it had been waiting.
I covered my mouth.
"Why would Dad lie?"
Grandpa's expression darkened.
"That's a question he needs to answer."
Brianna began crying harder.
"I didn't know until recently."
I looked at her.
She seemed genuinely frightened.
But I was no longer willing to trust words without evidence.
"Why are you telling me now?"
She swallowed.
"Because I saw Mom's face when you won."
I stared.
Brianna continued.
"She wasn't disappointed for me."
Her voice broke.
"She was angry that she couldn't control you anymore."
I looked down.
For years, Brianna had accepted the privileges Diane gave her.
She wore the clothes.
Enjoyed the vacations.
Drove the expensive car.
I wanted to blame her for everything.
But she was seventeen too.
And suddenly, I wondered how much control she truly had over her own life.
Grandpa spoke gently.
"Brianna, if you have documents, the right thing is to preserve them and tell the truth."
She nodded.
"I know."
Then she looked at me.
"I'm sorry I copied your work."
I swallowed.
"That really hurt me."
She began crying.
"I know."
I took a breath.
"I don't know if I can trust you yet."
Brianna nodded.
"I understand."
For once, nobody demanded immediate forgiveness.
I appreciated that.
We collected my belongings.
The photograph.
Mom's notebooks.
My schoolbooks.
My laptop.
The emerald-green dress I was still wearing.
As I carried the final bag downstairs, Diane appeared.
She looked furious.
"You're not taking anything else!"
Grandpa stepped forward.
"These are Maya's personal belongings."
Diane pointed toward the bags.
"Everything in this house belongs to Calvin and me!"
I looked at my father's face.
He stood behind her.
Silent.
Again.
Then I lifted Mom's photograph.
"Does this belong to you too?"
Diane's expression changed.
I continued.
"You told me Mom's things were lost."
She looked away.
I held up the frame.
"You were going to donate them."
Diane laughed.
"You're being dramatic."
I took one step closer.
"No."
My voice surprised me.
"I spent six years believing I had almost nothing left of my mother."
Diane rolled her eyes.
I continued.
"And you knew that."
She crossed her arms.
"That woman has been dead for years."
My chest tightened.
Grandpa moved beside me.
But I raised my hand gently.
I wanted to speak for myself.
"Her love didn't die."
The room went silent.
Diane stared at me.
I continued.
"And neither did the promises she made me."
For the first time, Diane had no immediate answer.
Then Dad spoke.
"Maya, please."
I looked at him.
He was crying.
I felt pain.
But I didn't move toward him.
"Dad, did you know the lake house still belonged to me?"
His face went pale.
Silence.
Then he whispered,
"Yes."
I closed my eyes.
Another lie.
Another piece of Mom taken from me.
I looked at him.
"Why?"
He covered his face.
"Diane said it would complicate things."
I almost laughed.
My childhood memories.
My inheritance.
My future.
All treated as inconveniences.
I took a shaky breath.
"I'm leaving now."
Dad stepped forward.
"Maya—"
I shook my head.
"I need time."
Then I walked out.
Grandpa drove me to his house.
It was a beautiful old home surrounded by trees.
But what I remembered most was the smell.
Fresh bread.
Cinnamon.
The same smell Grandma Eleanor used to fill the kitchen with on Sunday mornings.
I stepped through the doorway.
And began crying.
Grandpa put an arm around me.
"Welcome home, sweetheart."
I looked around.
Pictures of Mom hung in the hallway.
Photographs of me as a child rested on the shelves.
One showed me holding my first science fair ribbon.
Another showed Grandma Eleanor helping me plant tomatoes.
I stared.
"You kept everything?"
Grandpa smiled sadly.
"Of course."
My throat tightened.
"Then why didn't I see you?"
His expression changed.
He sat down slowly.
"Maya, I tried."
I looked at him.
"What?"
He opened a drawer.
Inside were envelopes.
Birthday cards.
Letters.
Every one addressed to me.
Many had been returned unopened.
I stared.
"What's all this?"
Grandpa's voice broke.
"Six years of trying to reach you."
My hands began trembling.
I picked up one envelope.
My thirteenth birthday.
Another.
My fourteenth.
Another.
My fifteenth.
I covered my mouth.
"Dad said you didn't want to see me."
Grandpa's eyes filled.
"I wanted to see you every day."
I began sobbing.
He pulled me into his arms.
For years, I believed my grandfather had abandoned me.
Now I knew someone had kept us apart.
Then Grandpa handed me a final envelope.
It was addressed in my father's handwriting.
Across the front were the words:
DO NOT CONTACT MAYA AGAIN.
My stomach dropped.
Grandpa looked at me.
"Your father sent that after I questioned the missing trust money."
May you like
I stared at the letter.
And suddenly, I understood that Dad's betrayal had begun long before the scholarship ceremony.
