07/25/2025
When my dad married Cassandra, I was eleven. Mom had been gone for thirteen months. Melanoma that spread faster than anyone expected. One day, she was complaining about a headache; eighty-two days later, I was standing at her grave in a black dress that still had the tags on.
Dad waited exactly one year before bringing Cassandra home. She worked at his investment firm, in client relations. Perfect teeth, blonde hair that never moved. The kind of woman who wore heels to other people’s barbecues. “She makes me happy again,” Dad explained, his voice gentle but firm. “I need you to try, Emily.”
So, I tried. I helped Cassandra move in, carrying boxes of designer shoes to the closet where Mom’s gardening clothes used to hang. I nodded politely when she rearranged our furniture, replacing family photos with abstract art that “opened up the space.” I even smiled when she transformed Mom’s vegetable garden into a meditation patio because “growing our own food is so provincial.”
For three years, I performed the role of grateful step-daughter. I attended her corporate events wearing the dresses she bought me. I tolerated her friends who cooed about how mature I was for fourteen. I kept my grief hidden behind perfect grades and false smiles. Dad didn’t notice when I stopped laughing, too busy with Cassandra’s social calendar and the new clients she brought in, too distracted by their couple’s retreats and wine club memberships. Meanwhile, I slept with Mom’s sweater under my pillow until it stopped smelling like her.
Cassandra tried in her way. She bought me expensive birthday gifts, always things she would want. She hosted elaborate dinner parties and introduced me as “our daughter” to important people who never remembered my name. She even started a college fund for me, making sure everyone knew about her generosity. But when I got my period for the first time, it was Google that taught me what to do. When I had nightmares about Mom dying, it was the family dog who comforted me.
The breaking point came during sophomore year. I was cast as the lead in the school play, the first thing I’d felt passionate about since Mom died. Opening night fell on the same evening as Cassandra’s charity gala. “Obviously, you’ll need to skip the performance,” she said, not looking up from her phone. “The Richardsons are bringing their son. He’s at Princeton. Connections, Emily.”
Dad started to object, then stopped when Cassandra placed her hand on his arm. “It’s just a high school play,” he finally said. “There will be others.”
I went to my room and pulled out the antique jewelry box Mom had left me. Inside was her wedding ring, a lock of my baby hair, and a journal I’d never opened. Too afraid of confronting her final thoughts. That night, through tears, I read it cover to cover. Most of it was what you’d expect: her hopes for my future, memories she cherished, advice she wouldn’t be able to give in person.
But the last entry, dated two weeks before she died, was different.
If you’re reading this, Emily, I need you to know about the safe deposit box. The key is taped inside this cover. What you find there will change everything. I’m so sorry.
The key was small and silver, with the bank’s name etched into it...
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