But, despite all of this, I held onto the hope—foolishly, I see now—that she cared. That when it really mattered, she would be there for me.
I was so wrong.
When Dad died, everything that had once been solid and stable crumbled. It felt like the ground beneath me had disappeared, leaving me to free-fall into the unknown. Charlotte barely seemed to grieve at all. At the funeral, her expressions were fleeting, disinterested—like she couldn’t be bothered to feel the weight of the loss. It was all just... too much for her, I suppose.
Two weeks later, we were at the lawyer’s office. Charlotte sat across from me, dressed in a neat suit, her expression almost bored as she checked her nails. The lawyer was fumbling with some paperwork when he cleared his throat and began the reading of Dad's will.
I sat there, stiff, my hands tightly clenched in my lap. I wasn’t prepared for what came next.
