Eventually, she sent me to boarding school “for my own good,” then slowly cut contact. After graduation, I returned to my childhood home only to learn it had been sold years earlier. Linda had taken everything and disappeared. I survived by working nonstop, saving out of fear, and building a life on my own. Culinary school became my escape, and years later I opened a small bakery—the first place that truly felt like mine.

Then one evening, Linda showed up at my door. Older, frail, and claiming she had nowhere to go, she asked for help. I let her in, remembering the child I once was. But it didn’t take long for her to act entitled again—opening my mail, judging my life, and reaching for my mother’s recipe notebook. Hidden inside was a small key, and when she saw it, her expression changed. That’s when I understood the truth: she hadn’t come back for me—she came back for what she still hoped to take.