I was ten when my parents died, and overnight my life collapsed into grief and confusion. After the funeral, my aunt Linda arrived with big promises, telling everyone she would take care of me. But once we were alone, her kindness vanished. While her children had bedrooms, I was given a thin mattress on the floor of a small back room. I learned quickly to stay quiet, grateful, and invisible—because in Linda’s house, being “rescued” meant I owed her everything.
Not long after, I noticed things that didn’t add up. My parents had left money meant for my future, and Linda said she would manage it. Soon her kitchen was remodeled, she bought a new car, and my cousins suddenly had tutors and expensive activities. When I finally asked about my parents’ money, she shut me down with one sentence: I should be thankful I wasn’t in foster care. That warning taught me never to question her again.
