Then one day, the phone rang.
It was a number I didn’t recognize, but the moment I answered, the voice on the other end froze my blood.
“Emily,” my brother Daniel said, his tone brittle. “You need to come home. Mom’s not doing well.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. The house that had rejected me was calling me back — not out of forgiveness, but desperation. I looked at my daughter, now fourteen herself, her green eyes mirroring my own.
“I don’t know if I can face them,” I whispered.
