At her house, she gave me a small room at the back.
No bed. Just a thin mattress on the floor and a blanket that smelled like dust and old boxes. Her kids had bunk beds.
Desks. Shelves full of toys. I had a corner.
The first night, I asked Linda where my stuff was.
She waved a hand.
Later never came.
***
My parents had left money for me. Not millions. But enough.
College money. Insurance. Savings.
Enough to make sure I wouldn’t disappear. Linda handled it.
At first, I didn’t understand what that meant. I was ten.
I thought adults were just… adults.
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