At seven years old, I chased my mother’s wedding car down the street screaming, but she never looked back.

I tilted my head, studying her the way a scientist studies a specimen under a microscope.

"A real family," I repeated softly. The words tasted metallic on my tongue.

"Yes!" Vanessa brightened instantly, her eyes flashing with greedy hope. She thought her performance was working. She thought the magic word family carried some kind of mystical spell over a girl she had left on a concrete porch fifteen years ago. "We can get a wonderful house together. Or, even better, you can set me up with a penthouse right here in this building, and a monthly allowance to get my feet back on the ground. After all, what’s yours is mine, isn't it? We're mother and daughter."

"What's mine is yours," I murmured.

"Exactly!" Vanessa beamed, clapping her hands together softly like a child promised a treat. "Oh, I knew you had a good heart. I knew you weren't like those ungrateful people who turn their backs on family when times get tough. Let's celebrate. Tonight. We'll go to that five-star restaurant down on the waterfront—what is it called, The Azure Grill? You can book a private room for us, and we can discuss the transfer of funds, setting up your accounts, and how we're going to merge our lives."

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"By dinner time, everything will be settled. You have the fortune, and I have the right to share it. We'll be unstoppable, Eleanor."

I finally stood up.

At seven years old, I had looked up at her with my neck craned, feeling small, helpless, and toweringly insignificant. Now, standing at five-foot-ten in custom tailored trousers and heels, I looked down at her.