The Miller girls weren’t just survivors; they were forces of nature. Valerie, the oldest, was the muscle. She spent her childhood in the shop, learning the structural integrity of beams and the grit of hard labor. Camille, the middle child, had a mind like a calculator. She tracked the shop’s invoices before she was ten. Sophie, the youngest, was the dreamer, always found with her nose in a library book on the porch.
When all three received full-ride scholarships to an Ivy League university, Ray sat on his porch and wept. “I couldn’t give you a kingdom,” he choked out as they prepared to leave. “I only hope I gave you enough to be good people.” The three sisters circled him. “Dad,” Valerie said, “we’re going to make sure you never have to work a day in your life ever again.”
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