Chapter 2

My constant crying grated on Mom’s nerves so much that when I was only a month old, she packed me off to my grandmother, Dolores Whitaker, in the countryside.

But Grandma didn’t love me either.

Dad had married Mom against Grandma’s wishes. She despised Mom, blaming her for driving a wedge between them.

Her hatred for Mom extended to me, Mom’s child.

Living with Grandma meant sharing space with my cousin, Finnigan Wilder, who was two years older than me.

Compared to Finn, my life was less than that of an abandoned puppy.

Whenever Grandma took us out, she’d plop me on the ground while carrying Finn, gossiping with neighbors while I crawled aimlessly nearby.

Once, while her attention was elsewhere, I crawled straight into the middle of a road and was nearly hit by an oncoming car.

A kind stranger quickly scooped me up and returned me to Grandma.

Her response? A hard slap on my back.

“Wild little brat with no mother! If you’re so set on running off, just let the cars finish you!”

I couldn’t even talk yet, but the pain made me cry out instinctively.

Grandma didn’t soothe me. Instead, she angrily dragged me back home and locked me in a room until I cried myself unconscious.

As I grew older and learned to walk, I knew obeying was the only way to avoid punishment.

But obedience came at a cost: suffocating humiliation.

While Finn got to eat meat, I was lucky to get the broth.

When Finn got new clothes every few months, I was left with his torn and patched-up hand-me-downs.

Even when it came to pocket money, Grandma had no trouble giving Finn coins for candy, but when I asked, I’d only get a scolding.

“Go ask your mom! She makes all that money and doesn’t return a penny to help us. What good is she?”

I didn’t know how to ask Mom for help.

The only solution my childish mind could think of was sitting at Greenwood Orchard Trail every day, waiting for her to return.

Most of what I knew about myself came from the whispered gossip of neighbors.

Like how I must have been too disobedient for Mom to want me.

Or how I wasn’t sent to preschool because “it wasn’t necessary.”

I listened quietly, but my hope stayed stubborn. I kept waiting for Mom to return.

The seasons changed, and the years passed.

When I was six, during a summer as humid as any other in Clover Hill, my waiting finally paid off.

But what I experienced that day was a pain I’ll never forget.