“I finally have the little sisters I always dreamed of,” she had whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
I felt like the luckiest man alive. I thought I had found a partner who didn’t just love me, but loved the burden I carried. I looked at her and saw a saint. I didn’t realize that a saint is just a mask if the person wearing it is a ghost.
Chapter 3: The Echoes Behind the Walls
The illusion shattered on a Tuesday afternoon. The sky was a bruised purple, heavy with the threat of a storm—the kind of atmosphere that makes the world feel small and hushed. I had finished a site inspection early and decided to surprise the girls with some craft supplies.
I entered the house through the side door, my footsteps muffled by the thick hallway rug. The house smelled like cinnamon and glue—the scents of a happy childhood. But then, I heard a voice that didn’t match the smell.
“Girls, you are not going to be staying here for long. So, don’t get too comfortable.”
It was Jenna. But the warmth was gone. Her voice was sharp, clinical, and devoid of the honeyed tone she used when I was around. I froze in the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“I’m not wasting the final years of my twenties raising someone else’s kids,” she continued. “A foster family would be much better for you anyway. They’re trained for… your type of sadness.”
I felt a coldness spread through my limbs. She wasn’t just talking; she was commanding. She told them that when the social worker came for the adoption interview, they were to lie. They were to say they wanted to leave.
Then came the sound that broke me: Maya’s soft, hitching sob.
“Don’t cry,” Jenna snapped. “If you cry again, I’ll take those silly notebooks of yours and throw them in the trash. You need to grow up.”
I stood there, paralyzed by a mixture of shock and a growing, white-hot fury. I stayed silent, moving closer to the kitchen door just in time to hear her shift gears. She was on the phone now, laughing with a friend. She spoke about the insurance money, about “waking me up” to put her name on the deed, and referred to my sisters—my blood, my mother’s final legacy—as “someone else’s leftovers.”w
