Chapter 2: The Making of Annie

Before I met Jason Carter, my life was never easy.

Growing up on the edge of Dayton, life was a patchwork of thrift store shoes and second-shift jobs. Our apartment sat above a laundromat, the rumble of machines my lullaby at night. It was the kind of place where you learn to keep your head down and your hands busy. I was the kid with the hand-me-down backpack, the girl who counted every penny at the corner store.

My mom was obsessed with looks and fell for my dad’s charm. She loved recklessly, slept with him without ever asking about his past. Then she had me.

She was beautiful—everyone said so. She spent her tips from waitressing on lipstick and cheap perfume, always hoping for more. When she met my dad, she believed all his promises, never bothering to ask why he paid only in cash or why he never brought her to his side of town.

After I was born, my mom found out my dad actually came from a wealthy family—the kind who could, with a single phone call, make sure she’d never worry about food or rent again.

The shock hit her hard. It was the sort of news you hear from someone else’s mouth, the kind that knocks the air right out of you. For a brief moment, she thought our lives might finally change.

But the bad news was, my dad was what folks around here called a freeloader—living off his wife’s family money.

The neighborhood gossips had a word for men like him—"house husband," but with a sneer. My mom didn’t know until too late.

And my mom was his mistress.

It’s the sort of truth people whisper behind your back, but no one says to your face. Even as a kid, I picked up on the tension in every interaction.

His legal wife caught them together, walked in and found my mom right there.

There was shouting, the sound of something breaking—my mom never told me the details, but I could picture it: the slammed door, the sharp words, the world tilting off its axis.

Don’t be fooled by how arrogant my dad was with my mom; in front of his wife, he was as meek as a puppy.

All the bravado melted away. He stammered and shrank, and my mom saw it all—her world collapsing in on itself.

He immediately cut off contact with my mom.

Just like that, he was gone. No calls, no support, not even a goodbye. My mom was left picking up the pieces.

He also refused to acknowledge me.

It was like I didn’t exist. I learned to live with being invisible—first to him, then to the world.

My mom raised me on her own, and life was tough.

She worked double shifts at a greasy spoon downtown, hauling home leftover fries and cold coffee. We lived in a basement apartment that smelled like mildew and boiled cabbage. I used to watch her counting change late at night, her hands shaking from exhaustion.

She pedaled an old bike, sold food from a sidewalk cart, got chased off by city officials, even lost a shoe running away one night.

Sometimes, I’d tag along, sitting on a milk crate while she haggled with customers or ran from the city inspectors. Once, a cop yelled at her for blocking the sidewalk, and she just laughed, one shoe off, her hair wild in the wind. She was tougher than she looked.

Later, she just couldn’t take it anymore.

I watched her lose weight, her eyes hollowing out. She talked about sending me somewhere better, about a different kind of life for me. I didn’t really understand, but I heard the desperation in her voice.

She said she wanted to find a better life for me.

I saw her writing letters at the kitchen table, making phone calls late at night. She kept her plans secret, but I could feel something shifting.

I don’t know how my mom did it, but she managed to get a DNA test to prove I was my father’s kid.

Maybe she called in a favor or found a way to scrape together the cash. All I know is, one day she had the paperwork clutched in her hands, her knuckles white with hope.

Then, she showed up at my dad’s front door, demanding he take responsibility for me.

It was the sort of showdown people only whisper about in small towns. My mom held her head high, voice steady, refusing to be dismissed or bought off.

The wealthy family was afraid of a scandal and gave in to her demands.

I remember standing behind her, feeling the weight of all those eyes—my father’s wife, the family lawyer, even the housekeeper peeking from the hallway. They agreed, not out of kindness, but out of fear of gossip hitting the country club circuit.

From then on, my mom and I were separated.

She squeezed my hand so tight, her wedding ring left an imprint on my skin that lasted all day. Both of us were unwilling to let go.

The day I was sent to the Smith family, my mom smiled through her tears. “Annie, you’ll never go hungry again.”

She tried to believe it was a blessing, even as her voice cracked. I saw the hope in her eyes, desperate that this was the best she could do for me.

But my mom thought things would be simple.

She had no idea what she was handing me into—a house of strangers who saw me as a burden, not family.

My dad saw me as a stain, and Mrs. Smith disliked me too.

Mrs. Smith, with her tight lips and sharper eyes, treated me like I carried a disease. My dad barely looked at me, and when he did, it was only to remind me how I didn’t belong.

The housekeepers picked up on it, so naturally, they didn’t treat me well.

Every bowl of cold cereal, every ignored request—it was their way of making sure I knew my place. The isolation was as thick as the dust in the corners of my small room.

As for my half-sisters, they found new ways to pick on me every day.

They’d swipe my sneakers and toss them on the roof, daring me to climb up and get them. They called me “charity case” or “orphan,” hiding my shoes or tearing my notebooks. Once, they locked me outside in the rain and laughed from the upstairs window. It was a daily gauntlet.

But my mom never knew about any of this.

I wrote her letters, but never told her the truth. I wanted her to believe she’d saved me.

That day at the Smiths’ front door was the last time I ever saw her.

Her hug lingered for weeks. I’d wake up wishing I could run back to her, but that door was closed forever.

She got cancer—late stage—and couldn’t afford the hospital bills.

No one called me. I found out months later from a social worker. The world moved on without her, and I was left behind.

After sending me to my dad, she jumped into the river.

The story went around our church, but no one looked me in the eye when they said it. It became a quiet ache inside me, an old scar I’d never be able to hide.

And I grew up in the Smith family as an adopted daughter, always careful, always on edge.

I learned to move quietly, to never ask for anything, to keep my head down and my grades up. My bedroom window looked out over the backyard, and I used to watch the sky change colors, wondering what my mom would think if she saw me now.