Chapter 1

I grew up in the Goodman residence.

For twenty years, I ate with Charles Goodman every day, and we tore around the backyard together.

When he hit a wrong note on the piano, I made fun of him.

When I turned in a crummy essay, he helped me rewrite it.

I always figured that some things between us didn't need to be spelled out.

Then one day, I pushed open the living room door and found a girl I had never seen before sitting on the couch. She had a fresh face and carried herself well.

When she saw me, she tilted her head and asked Charles's mother, Helen Goodman, "Who is this?"

Helen didn't bother to look my way. "She's the housekeeper's kid. Don't mind her."

Charles finally looked up and gave me a quick glance.

I stood there for a couple of seconds. Then I smiled.

It was the same proper, polite smile my mom had worn while taking care of this family for twenty years.

That was when it hit me. People were born into different lives, and there was no changing it.

*****

When I walked into the living room, Charles was on a blind date.

That girl, whom I didn't know, was sitting on the couch with her fresh face and nice posture.

She noticed me, tilted her head politely, and asked Helen, who was sitting in the head chair, "Mrs. Goodman, who is this?"

I was standing in the entryway with the yogurt I had picked up from the grocery store.

The plastic bag was cutting into my palm and leaving red marks.

Helen was holding her cup. She lifted her eyes a little when she heard the question, but she didn't bother to look my way. "She's the housekeeper's kid. Don't mind her."

Her voice was quiet, almost gentle. But those words broke every illusion I had built about this family for twenty years.

The living room got quiet for a moment.

That girl, Vivian Wynn, showed a little bit of apology on her face, like she had practiced it. Then she went back to looking like the proper rich heiress she was.

And Charles, the one person I thought understood me better than anyone else, finally looked up and gave me a glance.

It held no surprise, no explanation, and no emotion, like I had always been a nobody who was invisible.

I stood there for two seconds. Then I smiled.

It was a proper, polite smile, with the corners of my mouth turned up exactly the right amount.

It was the same smile my mom had worn while taking care of this family for twenty years.

It was the same quiet, obedient smile that always tried a little too hard to be liked.

I held onto the yogurt, gave a little bow, and nodded to everyone in the room.

Then I turned around without a word and walked softly toward the small house in the backyard. That was where my mom and I lived.

Behind me, I heard Helen's voice with a touch of apology in it. "She grew up here. She's never had any manners. Don't mind her, Vivian."

"Not at all, Mrs. Goodman. She's fine," Vivian replied.

I stopped listening and went back to my tiny room, which was only about two hundred square feet.

Then I put the yogurt in the mini fridge. There were five containers in three different flavors. Every single one was Charles's favorite.

I had lived in this room for twenty years, but that was the first time I'd felt like a stranger there.

*****

I'd lived with the Goodmans for twenty years.

My mom started working for them as a housekeeper when I was little, and I never left.

For twenty years, I ate dinner with Charles Goodman every night, and we tore around the backyard together.

When he hit the wrong notes on the piano, I laughed until my stomach hurt right next to him.

When I turned in a terrible essay, he frowned and fixed every line for me.

And when I got my period and ruined my school skirt, he took off his jacket, wrapped it around my waist, and walked me home.

Everyone said Helen could be difficult, but she was good to us.

She paid for my school and bought me clothes as nice as Charles's.

If people ignored my last name, they would have thought I was Helen's daughter too.

I always figured that some things between us didn't need to be spelled out.

It was in our bones, built from twenty years of growing up side by side.

I'd always believed that until today.

Those two words, "housekeeper's daughter," hit me like cold water and drowned every dream I had been lying to myself about.

Eating at the same table never made us family.

Playing in the same yard never made me part of his world.

My mom was the housekeeper, so I was merely the housekeeper's daughter. That was what I was.