Because thinking about her made something sharp twist in my chest.
I told myself she didn’t want me. That I was just a burden she got rid of the first chance she had.
That belief became armor.
I wore it for two years.
I was sixteen when the nurse found me.
It was late afternoon. I had just come back to my dorm after classes when there was a knock at the door.
When I opened it, a woman in scrubs stood there, holding a small envelope.
“Are you…?” she said my name carefully.
“Yeah,” I answered, confused.
Her expression softened, but there was something heavy behind her eyes.
“I’m sorry to come like this,” she said. “But… a patient asked me to find you.”
“A patient?”
“She passed away this morning,” the nurse said gently. “Her last wish was for you to have this.”
She handed me the envelope.
My hands started shaking before I even opened it.
“Who was she?” I asked.
The nurse hesitated.
Then, quietly, “Your stepmother.”
I didn’t remember closing the door.
I only remember sitting on my bed, staring at the small flash drive inside the envelope like it might explode.
My heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
She was… gone?
Before I could stop myself, I plugged it into my laptop.
A single folder appeared.
“For You When You’re Ready.”
My throat tightened.
I clicked.
Inside were documents—dozens of them. Bank statements. Transaction records. My name appeared over and over again.
I leaned closer to the screen, trying to understand.
And then I saw it.
$400.
Deposited every single month.
