Chapter 1: The Secret Benefactor
I parked my car on the cracked concrete of the driveway, the engine idling for a moment before I killed the ignition. I gripped the steering wheel, taking a deep, steadying breath. Through the windshield, the house looked the same as it always had: a sprawling, two-story suburban home with peeling beige siding and a lawn that was fighting a losing war against crabgrass.
To the neighbors, it was just the Miller residence. To my parents, it was their castle, the symbol of their middle-class status. But to the bank, three months ago, it had been a bad asset.
A foreclosure waiting to happen. My father, Frank, had gambled away his retirement fund on bad stocks. My mother, Linda, had refused to cut back on her lifestyle.
They had stopped paying the mortgage six months ago. The foreclosure notice had been nailed to the door in bright orange paper. They didn’t know that I had seen it.
They didn’t know that I, the “disappointment” of the family, the daughter they mocked for working too hard and having no husband, had quietly formed an LLC called Phoenix Holdings. They didn’t know I had approached the bank and bought their debt for pennies on the dollar. Technically, legally, and absolutely: I owned the roof over their heads.
I owned the floorboards they walked on. I owned the air they breathed inside these walls. I hadn’t evicted them.
Not yet. I had let them stay, thinking the bank had made a clerical error or granted them a miraculous extension. I wanted to see if they would change.
I wanted to see if, given a second chance, they would be better people. Especially today. Today was Lily’s birthday.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned to the back seat. Lily, my beautiful, silent two-year-old, was staring out the window with her large, dark eyes. She didn’t babble like other toddlers.
She didn’t scream. She observed. “Ready to go see Grandma and Grandpa?” I asked, forcing a cheerfulness I didn’t feel.
Lily looked at me and blinked slowly. She reached out a small hand, opening and closing her fingers—her sign for Momma. I got out and lifted her from the car seat, hugging her warm, solid weight against my chest.
In my other hand, I grabbed the bag of gifts and the custom-ordered cake box. My father was sitting on the front porch in a rocking chair that groaned under his weight. He was nursing a can of cheap beer, even though it was only 11:00 AM.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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