I stand on the single step and knock on the door, peering over at the dried-up bush under the window. There is a car in the driveway that I expect is the lawyer’s.
The door opens.
I gasp.
“Dad?” I ask the man who has my hazel eyes, my blonde hair, my complexion. He looks almost exactly like the single picture I have of him. The only difference is his hair is now peppered with gray, and he seems to have a few more wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He shouldn’t be here. He left my mom and me when I was three. He has no right to be here.
“Yes,” he says.
I turn to walk away.
“Wait, please, let me explain. Talk to me; then I’ll be gone and out of your life forever.”
“Why should I?” I snap at him.
“Because I’ll keep hunting you, stalking you until you give in and talk to me. You might as well get it over with now.”
I glare, my eyes narrow in defiance, but I eventually decide to stomp inside the house. “You couldn’t have chosen a different day other than my mother’s funeral to talk to me?”
He shuts the door behind me and stands facing me, like he’s blocking off my escape route. He doesn’t know that a man like him doesn’t terrify me. Nothing scares me anymore, not after I’ve been through hell already.
“You have five minutes, start talking,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. The ratty couch I used to sleep on is still in the living room, but I refuse to sit on it.
My father doesn’t either.
“I didn’t come here to apologize for leaving you. Although, I am sorry to hear about your mother.”
“Good, because I wouldn’t forgive you.” I don’t acknowledge his comment about my mother.
He nods.
“I came here to tell you about your inheritance, of sorts.”
I frown. “Just take the house and whatever money Mom had. I’m not going to fight you. I have my own money now.”
He looks me over, head to toe, taking in my appearance, my expensive clothes. I’ve come a long way in a short time thanks to the help of my friends.
“I can see that. Still, it’s time I told you a story.”
I huff. “Really? I don’t have time for a story. My friend is picking me up any minute now.”
He raises an eyebrow, calling my bluff.
“I still have four minutes remaining. I can tell you the story in that amount of time.”
“Go on, then.”
Once upon a time, I fell in love.
She was feisty, radiant, and reckless. She had nothing. She came from nothing. And unless she found a rich husband—it would take everything she had to pull herself out of poverty.
I wasn’t rich.
I had less money than her.
I had no college degree.
No job prospects.
All I had was five dollars in my pocket and the clothes on my back.
None of that mattered.
Our love was enough.
We vowed to love each other forever.
We got married.
A baby followed.
I thought our life together was so happy.
I thought we could make our marriage last.
I thought…
I thought it was enough.
Turns out, you can’t live on love.
You can’t eat love.
Breathe love.
Live under a roof made of love.
You need money.
We tried to make more of ourselves. I went to a community college.
It wasn’t enough.
She worked three jobs.
It wasn’t enough.
Our baby deserved more.
We deserved more.
So we started hunting for a way out.
Hunting.
Hunting.
Hunting…
Until finally, we found a way out.
We had more money than we could have ever imagined.
More money than the suits who used to look down on us as we cleaned their homes.
More money than the executives who those suits reported to.
More money than the queen of England.
We thought we had it all. We thought we knew what came next.
But all that came next was defending what we had stolen.
Our love wasn’t enough.
Fighting our enemies wore us down until we had no energy left, no desire to fight. Until our love dissolved into ash, and our hearts were torn apart.
Sometimes fairy tales turn into nightmares.
Listen to my warning, child.
Don’t search for it.
Don’t seek the fairytale.
Don’t seek the money like your mother and me.
Run, Liesel.
Hide.
Don’t hunt.
Above everything else, don’t ever tell anyone the truth—who you are or what you know.
“I don’t understand,” I say. All this time my parents had money? They had a treasure? The only reason I grew up poor was because they weren’t strong enough to keep the money?
“It’s all in here.” He hands me an envelope.
I stare at it with big eyes as I begin to remove the letter from the envelope. “What is it?”
He puts his hand over mine, stopping me.
“Later. Read it later, when you’re alone. Then burn it. Forget about going after the money, the treasure. Lie to anyone who asks you about it.”
“I have so many questions,” I say, staring at the envelope cautiously.
“I know, and I wish we had more time.”
“Is this goodbye?”
“It is, my sweet daughter. It is.”
He leans forward and kisses me on the cheek before I realize what’s happening. I’m in shock. This man is insane. There is no way any of this is true.
“Go,” he says, breaking the trance I’m under.
I take a step out of the tiny house, knowing that I won’t be back inside ever again. This part of my life is over. My mother is gone, and I won’t search for my father. I doubt I even read this stupid letter.
I run out, and I don’t hear him following me.
I head toward my car, planning on driving away before Langston appears. I just want out of here. I can’t handle a dinner with Langston right now.
But Langston is already here, and he’ll stop me. I feel him before I see him.
When I look up, I see the tension on his face, a vein bulging on his forehead. He’s pissed, but I don’t know why.
“Is it true?” he asks me, stopping me from entering my car.
“Is what true? You’re going to have to be a little more specific. My mother just died, and my father decided to show up after fifteen years of running and dropped a bomb on me.”
Langston’s nostrils flare.
“Is. It. True?”
“I. Don’t. Know. What. You’re. Talking. About.” I point my finger at him as I talk.
He doesn’t back down, but I don’t have the patience to deal with him. I grab my car door and climb in. He catches the door right before I slam it in his face.
One tense moment.
He slams the door.
I drive away.
I’ll deal with Langston later.
I look at the envelope in my hand after a few miles, deciding I should just pull over at the nearest Starbucks to read it and blow off whatever ridiculous conspiracy theory my father stumbled on in a drugged up state.
I do a double-take—the letter is torn.
Right in half.