When my parents died, my aunt said she was “saving” me. I slept on a mattress on the floor and grew up believing I owed her my life—until, years later, she came back to collect.It was winter. Snow everywhere. One of those nights adults later describe as “terrible road conditions,” like that explains anything. All I knew was that my mom, Claire, and my dad, Michael, left the house and didn’t come back.After the funeral, my dad’s sister, Linda, showed up. She hugged me in front of people. Long, loud hugs. The kind meant to be seen.

That’s how Linda liked to phrase it. Taking me. Like a package. Like charity.At her house, she gave me a small room at the back. No bed. Just a thin mattress on the floor and a blanket that smelled like dust and old boxes. Her kids had bunk beds. Desks. Shelves full of toys. I had a corner.The first night, I asked Linda where my stuff was. She waved a hand.My parents had left money for me. Not millions. But enough. College money. Insurance. Savings. Enough to make sure I wouldn’t disappear. Linda handled it.