Chapter 1

Ten years in a row, ten Christmas packages, and I tossed the latest one aside without a second thought, like the past nine.

The delivery guy knew me well by now; every December 23rd, the same return address, the same cardboard box showed up.

For those first nine years, I'd dumped them straight into the trash, no need to even tear off the tape.

This year, though, the box felt lighter, light enough to make me hesitate, if only for a heartbeat, before it joined the rest in the garbage.

That night, as I hauled the trash can out, the box slipped out and hit the ground, splitting open along the seam.

A plastic bag tumbled out, holding a medical record.

I bent down to pick it up, my fingers fumbling as I flipped to the first page.

Stomach cancer. Terminal. The name stared back at me: Richard Grant.

It was my father.

*****

The word "Dad" hadn't crossed my lips in a decade.

Since I walked out of that apartment at twenty-two, he'd been nothing more than Richard: a man living in my mom Grace Lewis' apartment, sharing his life with another woman.

A decade of no returns, no answered calls, no acknowledgment, save for that annual Christmas package, which I tossed away without a second glance, year after year.

The first year, hesitation crept in.

The box arrived on December 23rd at my cramped rental, which was barely 130 square feet, with no heat to chase away the winter chill. The delivery guy set it at my door, and I stared at the return address for ten long minutes.

The sender was Richard.

The address was that apartment, the one Grace had left me, the one I'd grown up in.

Now it belonged to Mary Lane and her daughter, Sophie Lane.

I dragged the box to the trash can, pausing briefly as a flicker of doubt crossed my mind, before shoving it in.

By the second year, that hesitation was gone.

By the third, I didn't even bother to look at it, grabbed it and tossed it, like throwing away a piece of junk mail.

The delivery guy said once, shaking his head, "Miss, your family sends this package every year, and you toss it out every time. Want me to tell 'em to cut it out?"

I shook my head, my voice cold. "No. Let him send it."

Throwing it away was my call; sending it was his.

He owed me a debt no amount of Christmas gifts could ever settle, not in a million years.

Grace was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer when I was twelve.

From diagnosis to her final breath, only four short months passed.

On her deathbed, she squeezed my hand tight, her voice weak but unwavering. "Sarah, when I'm gone, you keep studying hard. This apartment is yours. I left it for you."

She turned to Richard, her eyes filled with urgency. "Richard, promise me you'll take care of Sarah."

Richard was a mess, sobbing so hard he could barely get the words out.

Finally, he choked out. "I promise. I swear on my life I will."

However, fourteen months after her death, Mary moved into our apartment, Sophie in tow.

Sophie was a year older than I was.

The day they moved in, I came home from school and saw a pink sign hanging on my bedroom door that read: [Sophie's Room.]

I pushed the door open, and my heart dropped to my stomach.

My desk was gone, my bookshelf was gone, and my bed was draped in pink sheets, topped with a doll I'd never seen before.

All my things, including my books, my notebooks, the lamp Grace had bought me for my tenth birthday, were stuffed into black garbage bags, piled like trash in the balcony corner.

Mary wandered out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron and flashing a fake smile. "Sarah, honey, Sophie's older than you, and she has more things. Let her have the bigger room, okay? You can take the small one."

The "small one" was the apartment's storage closet, barely 43 square feet with no windows.

I turned to Richard, who was slouched on the sofa.

"Dad," I said, my voice tight.

He grunted, not even looking up.

"That's my room," I said.

He finally lifted his head, his gaze fleeting, like he couldn't bear to meet my eyes. "Sarah, be a good kid. We'll work something out later..."

"Work what out?" I shot back.

Mary's smile wavered for a split second before she recomposed herself, patting my shoulder lightly. "Sarah, sweetie, I made braised beef for dinner. Come eat."

I didn't touch a bite.

That night, I locked myself in the storage closet, sitting among the cardboard boxes and staring at the flickering light bulb above me.

Grace had said that the apartment was mine.

But I was only twelve, powerless to fight back, powerless to stop any of it.

From that day on, that apartment ceased to be my home.

Mary's belongings slowly took over every nook and cranny. Grace's photos were torn down from the living room wall and put away for "safekeeping". The lavender she had planted was hauled downstairs because "it's too much of a hassle." The heirloom necklace Grace had left me, her mother's gift for her wedding, was locked in Mary's jewelry box, because "it's too fancy for a kid to wear."

Richard said nothing. He never did.

He turned a blind eye, like Grace's memory meant nothing to him.

Sophie used to call him "Mr. Grant," but before long, she was calling him "Dad," and he smiled and answered like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I'd sit in the storage closet, listening to their laughter drift through the door.

They were a happy little family now.

I was an afterthought, a ghost in my own home.