When I saw my brother cruising around in a shiny red convertible, I knew something was off. Little did I know, that car held the key to a betrayal I never saw coming — and a plan Gran had set in motion long before she was gone.
My name is Juniper. I’m 26 now, and I’ve been living out of state for four years.
Honestly, it was the best decision I ever made: to get away from my family and all the hurt that came with it.
It wasn’t like I ever felt a part of them. My parents had always favored my older brother, Maverick. You could say he was the golden child, but that doesn’t even cover it.
Growing up, I was just… there. The “spare,” as Gran used to joke, though there was always a tenderness in her voice when she said it.
That’s part of why I left. Well, that, and Noel — my boyfriend.
He convinced me it was time to live for myself, to create something outside the shadows of my family.
We packed up our little car, and I moved with him to the city, away from my parents, Maverick, and all the memories.
“Noel, I swear, I just couldn’t stay there anymore,” I had told him over dinner once. I still remember how he’d smiled at me from across the table, his hand reaching out to grab mine.
“You don’t need to explain it to me again, June. You did the right thing,” he had reassured me, squeezing my hand.
“You deserve more than being the second choice.”
Even after four years away, I barely spoke to my family. Calls came less frequently, and texts became a rare formality. My parents?
They didn’t seem to mind, honestly. It was like I had just faded out of their lives. The only one who stayed in touch was Gran.
She was the one person in my family who made me feel like I mattered.
When I was younger, she’d sneak me chocolate bars when my mom wasn’t looking or call me on the phone late at night just to hear how my day went.
Gran didn’t care if it was boring or if I felt like my life was a mess. She just listened.
And then, one day, I found out she died. Accidentally.
No call, no message, nothing. Can you believe that? I was scrolling through Facebook, of all places, and saw a post from an old family friend.
Gran’s picture. A date and a “Rest in Peace” note.
I couldn’t breathe. I stared at my phone, waiting for things to make sense, but they didn’t.
My heart felt like it had been ripped out of my chest.
I dropped my phone on the table, stood up, and muttered, “Gran’s gone.”
Noel looked up from the couch. “What? What do you mean she’s gone?”
“She died.
No one even told me.” I could feel the burn of tears, but it was more than sadness; it was anger and perhaps betrayal. “How could they not tell me?”
Noel was up in a second, pulling me into a hug, but it didn’t make any sense. Why hadn’t my parents called me?
Even Maverick. Nothing.
I booked a flight back home that same night.
I didn’t care what it took — I had to visit Gran’s grave. I had to say goodbye, at least on my own terms.
The next morning, I found myself walking through my hometown, the place I hadn’t seen in years, the place I had fought so hard to escape. Everything was as I remembered, except one thing.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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