My wealthy grandmother found me and my 6-year-old at a family shelter and asked, “Why aren’t you living in the house on Hawthorne Street?” I went numb—I didn’t even know there was a house. Three days later, she made me walk into a family dinner with my head held high. The moment my parents saw us, they went pale, because the secret they’d hidden about that house was about to be exposed in front of everyone.

She stepped closer—not to me, toward Laya.

She crouched down in front of her, which was almost shocking. Evelyn Hart did not crouch for anyone. She sat in chairs that cost more than my monthly income and made everyone else adjust.

But there she was, lowering herself to my daughter’s height.

“You’re Laya, right?” she asked.

“Yes,” Laya whispered shyly.

Evelyn’s expression softened just slightly.

“That’s a beautiful name.”

Then her eyes lifted to mine and turned sharp again.

“Get in the car,” she said.

I blinked.

“Grandma—”

“Get in the car,” she repeated, and there was no room in her tone for negotiation.

Heat rushed to my face—anger, embarrassment, relief, everything tangled up.

Evelyn opened the back door of the sedan. I hesitated.

Laya looked up at me.

“Mom,” she said, small and steady.
“It’s okay.”

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