Chapter 3: Money, Motives, and Judgment

He was furious, yanking me—while I was reading—right to the door and laid into me: “Don’t you have any manners? This is Savannah’s room. You’re like a squatter in someone else’s house, how could you!”

His grip was tight, his voice sharp enough to cut.

My book tumbled to the floor, forgotten.

I was stunned—not just because it was my first time seeing my brother, but because I couldn’t figure out how I was a squatter in my own family’s house.

The word stung. I looked at him, searching for any sign of kindness.

And found none.

Scared, I called for my parents.

My voice was small, trembling.

I hoped they would defend me, but I already knew better.

They hurried upstairs, and Carter spoke first: “Dad, Mom, how could you let this happen? This is Savannah’s room. If you treat them differently, won’t it hurt Savannah’s feelings?”

He stood tall, righteous, the defender of family order.

I shrank under his gaze.

“This…” My parents looked conflicted, not knowing what to say.

They looked everywhere but at me.

The silence was worse than yelling.

I caught the flash of anger in my mother’s eyes.

It was quick, but unmistakable.

She looked at me like I’d broken something precious.

That was the look she gave me.

It was the same look I’d seen in my foster father’s eyes, just before he sent me away.

I paused. I knew that look.

My late foster dad used to look at me that way.

A chill ran down my spine.

Some things never change.

Mom was mad at me!

I shrank back, my hands clenched at my sides.

I wanted to disappear.

So, I really was a squatter.

The word echoed in my mind, heavy and final.

I didn’t belong here, not really.

The squatter stands quietly on the porch, year after year.

Invisible.

Waiting for someone to let her in.

Never realizing the door was locked from the start.

In the end, she jumps from the roof.

It’s really stupid.

All that waiting, all that hoping—it led nowhere.

This time, I can’t be stupid anymore.

I promised myself: never again.

Never beg for love that isn’t offered.

This time, I won’t fight or compete, won’t cry or make a scene.

And I definitely won’t love them anymore.

I let go of the bear, let go of hope.

My heart felt lighter, emptier.

I smiled to myself and pointed to the innermost, smallest room.

The words came out calm, steady.

I surprised myself.

“I want that one.”

My parents were stunned, then looked relieved, pretending to scold: “That’s the storage room, why pick that? Pick another.”

They tried to laugh it off, but I saw the relief in their eyes.

I made things easier for them, again.

“I’m used to small rooms, they feel safer.”

My tone carried a hint of self-mockery.

I shrugged, pretending it didn’t matter.

I’d learned to make myself small, to take up as little space as possible.

My parents sighed and agreed.

They didn’t argue, didn’t insist.

It was clear they were happy to let me fade into the background.

Just like that, they let their real daughter, who’d been missing for ten years, live in the storage room.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

I wondered if they’d even remember where I slept.

Savannah came back at the perfect time.