The chaotic, anxiety-inducing noise of my old life was entirely replaced by the quiet, soothing hum of the ocean outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of my new condo.
I hadn’t bought a sprawling mega-mansion, a fleet of sports cars, or a private yacht. I had bought something infinitely more valuable: absolute peace. I invested the vast majority of the funds into diverse, low-risk portfolios that ensured I would never have to worry about a bill again. I opened the independent bookstore I had dreamed of since I was a teenager, filling it with plush armchairs, the smell of fresh coffee, and thousands of worlds to escape into.
Most importantly, for the first time in my adult life, I slept entirely through the night. The chronic tension in my shoulders vanished.
But even with a new phone number and a fortress of legal protection, information about my family still trickled in through the grapevine, mostly via my cousin, David, who was the only relative I had maintained contact with.
David and I met for coffee one brisk autumn afternoon at a quiet café near my bookstore.
“It’s an absolute mess over there, Maya,” David told me, stirring his cappuccino, his voice hushed. “It’s like the whole family structure just imploded.”
“What happened?” I asked, taking a sip of my latte, feeling a detached, morbid curiosity.
“Selene threw a massive, screaming fit because your parents couldn’t afford to give her the down payment for that dream house in the gated community,” David explained, shaking his head. “She completely blamed them. She said they should have handled you better. She barely speaks to them now; she didn’t even invite them to Thanksgiving.”
