The door opens.
I gasp.
“Dad?” I ask the man who has my hazel eyes, my blonde hair, my complexion. He looks almost exactly like the single picture I have of him. The only difference is his hair is now peppered with gray, and he seems to have a few more wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He shouldn’t be here. He left my mom and me when I was three. He has no right to be here.
“Yes,” he says.
I turn to walk away.
“Wait, please, let me explain. Talk to me; then I’ll be gone and out of your life forever.”
“Why should I?” I snap at him.
“Because I’ll keep hunting you, stalking you until you give in and talk to me. You might as well get it over with now.”
I glare, my eyes narrow in defiance, but I eventually decide to stomp inside the house. “You couldn’t have chosen a different day other than my mother’s funeral to talk to me?”
He shuts the door behind me and stands facing me, like he’s blocking off my escape route. He doesn’t know that a man like him doesn’t terrify me. Nothing scares me anymore, not after I’ve been through hell already.
“You have five minutes, start talking,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. The ratty couch I used to sleep on is still in the living room, but I refuse to sit on it.
My father doesn’t either.
“I didn’t come here to apologize for leaving you. Although, I am sorry to hear about your mother.”
“Good, because I wouldn’t forgive you.” I don’t acknowledge his comment about my mother.
He nods.
“I came here to tell you about your inheritance, of sorts.”
I frown. “Just take the house and whatever money Mom had. I’m not going to fight you. I have my own money now.”
He looks me over, head to toe, taking in my appearance, my expensive clothes. I’ve come a long way in a short time thanks to the help of my friends.
“I can see that. Still, it’s time I told you a story.”
I huff. “Really? I don’t have time for a story. My friend is picking me up any minute now.”
He raises an eyebrow, calling my bluff.
“I still have four minutes remaining. I can tell you the story in that amount of time.”
“Go on, then.”
Once upon a time, I fell in love.
She was feisty, radiant, and reckless. She had nothing. She came from nothing. And unless she found a rich husband—it would take everything she had to pull herself out of poverty.
I wasn’t rich.
I had less money than her.
I had no college degree.
No job prospects.
All I had was five dollars in my pocket and the clothes on my back.