Her house was massive—ten million dollars of white stone and glass with a gate that buzzed before it opened. I had to walk up the driveway slowly, gripping the bag of oranges, afraid the security camera would flash red and deny me entry. But it did not. Not that day.

I rang the bell. I waited. And when the door opened, I froze.

She looked like a painting. Not my daughter. Not the girl I raised on food stamps and bedtime stories, but someone else entirely. She wore a white blazer, perfectly tailored. Her lips were painted a shade of crimson that made her look like she had never known hunger. Her eyes—my eyes—looked at me with a fear so quick it passed in a blink, replaced instantly by something sharper.

Contempt.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed, her voice low, urgent, panicked. “Why didn’t you call first? You can’t be here.”