That night I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling and did the math. No money. No support. A partial scholarship that didn’t stretch far enough. A room that wasn’t really a room. A family that wasn’t really mine.
Then my phone rang.
Boston number.
I almost ignored it.
“Thea? This is Patricia. Your Aunt Patty.”
My mother had cut off my father’s whole side after the funeral. I hadn’t heard Patty’s voice in years.
“There’s something your dad left for you,” she said. “You need to come.”
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