When Ivy’s art career suddenly takes off, her parents, who had abandoned her, reappear with smiles and ulterior motives. But Ivy has a plan of her own. In a story about betrayal, belonging, and the family we choose, one woman finally finds the voice to rewrite the ending they never expected.
My parents didn’t die.
They just left.
Not all at once; not with bags packed and slammed doors like in the movies. No, Tanya and Charlie disappeared in pieces, and in arguments about who had to take me that week, like I was a stray someone forgot to claim.
I was 10 when I realized that they didn’t want me anymore. Not because I’d done anything wrong, not even because they were struggling, but because they’d moved on.
My father, Charlie, married Kristen, his long-time “friend” who always wore perfume that stuck in your throat and smiled like she had secrets you weren’t allowed to know.
She had a son named Travis, just a year younger than me, and not long after the wedding, she gave birth to a baby girl with honey-colored curls.
“Our perfect little sunshine.”
They became my father’s family, his real family. The one he showed off at barbecues and posted on Christmas cards.
And me? Oh.
I was the leftover child.
My mother, Tanya, married Donnie. He had thick forearms and a voice that never rose above a grumble, but somehow still scared me more than yelling would have. He didn’t like disruptions, especially the kind that cried during movies or needed help with math.
When my half-sister, Rosie, was born, my mother’s world shrank to a bottle schedule and sleep training apps.
Her hugs became one-armed pats, and her conversations shorter, thinner.
“Ivy, you need to be quiet.
Donnie just worked a double shift,” she said once, when I tried to show her a sketch I made of our backyard.
I remember the night they gave up on pretending altogether. I heard them arguing behind their closed bedroom door.
“She’s not my kid, Tanya. Seriously.
I didn’t want kids. It’s just different with Rosie because she’s my blood,” Donnie grumbled.
“Well, she’s not his either. Charlie doesn’t even call anymore, Don,” my mother hissed.
“What do you want me to do?”
Then, not even five minutes later, I heard my father’s voice on speakerphone, crackling.
“We’ve got our own routine now, Tanya,” he said.
“I mean, it’s not easy with two young kids. Kristen’s not comfortable with adding another one. Ivy doesn’t even fit in here.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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