Because this was my passion. And in a world where people’s passions were pulled from them so they could focus on what others wanted, I knew I was privileged. I knew the only reason I could work as I did and focus on my art and charities was because of my trust fund. It was because of the privilege I had been raised with.
I pulled my hair from the clip at the back of my head, my blond hair brushing the tops of my shoulders. I had recently cut off a few more inches, and I liked the look, even though I kind of missed being able to braid it over my shoulder.
My house had four bedrooms—one I used for an office, a guest bedroom, and a little reading nook I made for myself. The studio attachment had been for another artist who lived here before I bought the place. It had been like kismet when I found the listing, and I had offered the asking price without a second look.
I was lucky, and I loved my home. It was all light colors, creams with greige, reclaimed wood and metal. It was nothing like the ornate opulence and wealth-induced creativity that I had been born into. My parents had never once set foot into this home. They would hate it. That had only been part of my decision to buy it. The idea that this place was just me had been the main reason.
I went to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water and did my best to calm my nerves so I could focus on what was important. The idea that I was so scatterbrained annoyed me. I wasn’t always like this, and I couldn’t entirely blame Nathan for it.
I looked around the kitchen and frowned. I needed to do another deep clean. A service came in once a month, but since I lived alone and didn’t have pets, I could usually handle everything on my own. It was only when I traveled for work or was busy on a project that I sometimes couldn’t quite keep up. Besides, the company I hired was a group of single moms who got together to help younger moms find a place in the world and finish school.
If I could help others while keeping myself sane and my house clean, all the better.
I pulled out my cleaning supplies and began scrubbing counters, cleaning grout, and then started my deep clean of the kitchen. It had been on my to-do list for the weekend, but it seemed I would be working out my frustrations today.
I was elbow deep in cleanser when the doorbell rang. I frowned.
The girls all had plans today, so I knew we weren’t meeting, and I didn’t know who else it could be. It couldn’t be Nathan.
My heart rate sped up.
He had come into my house once before to pick up that container for Dakota. All the other times he had been here, he’d only dropped me off when we took care of Joshua. He claimed it was because he wanted to keep me safe when our friends were in danger, but it was still hard for me to stomach having him so close.
I made my way to the door and looked through the peephole. I froze, not quite believing what I was seeing. I looked at the cleaning clothes I had on, the smell of pine still drifting in the air.
I tried to reach out to grab the doorknob, but my hand slipped. I held back a curse, wiping my palms on my jeans before I opened the door and looked at the three people who had never been at my house before.
My mother looked at least a decade younger than she was. There was no way anyone would think she was in her fifties. I didn’t think she had ever had any work done, but for all I knew, she had. If it made her happy, I wouldn’t care. But nothing ever made my mother happy. I sure hadn’t.
She was a couple of inches taller than I was and wore the perfect shoes for whatever environment she was in. Although, they always had to have a heel to make her calves look great. It was something she had taught me when I was a young girl as I slid my feet into her eight-hundred-dollar shoes and walked around the bedroom. She hadn’t laughed with me or encouraged me. She had scolded me and then showed me how to walk in them to accentuate my features and be the perfect young lady.
I shifted my gaze to my father. He had gone gray at the temples and had a frown on his face. That was his normal look, though. It didn’t worry me. He always scowled. Nothing was ever good enough for my dad. I hadn’t been. Maybe because I wasn’t the son he had so desired. He had wanted somebody to carry on the family name. Instead, he had gotten a girl who refused to listen to him and tried to ruin the family name. At least, in his opinion.
I looked over at my cousin, his dark hair brushed back from his face—a thousand-dollar haircut if I guessed correctly. He had on nice slacks, a button-down shirt, and looked his version of casual. Though I knew it was anything but casual given the name brands he wore.
His Ferragamos were perfectly shined as if he hadn’t recently walked off a plane and was now in the mountain areas of Boulder, Colorado. The three of them looked so out of place, and I was surprised they even knew where I lived. Maybe they had looked at the return address on the Christmas card I had sent or something. They certainly never sent one back. And I hadn’t heard from them since I moved here after finally taking a stand.
“Are you just going to stare at us, or are you going to ask us in?” my mother asked, her voice crisp and still so familiar. I nearly bowed my head and curtsied, but this was my home. I was going to stand up to them.
I had loved my parents once. Had cherished them and did my best to live up to what they needed and wanted of me.
But when I was broken, and they forced me back to California and tried to mold me in their image, I realized I wasn’t enough—I had never been.
Even now, I didn’t think they thought I was, despite the fact that I knew who I was now.
“I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Clearly,” my father said, his gaze going down to my bare feet, my jeans with the holes in the knee and the thigh, and my T-shirt. I had gone from painting to cleaning, and I looked my version of casual.
Which was nothing like my family’s.
“Please, come in.” I didn’t want them inside. I couldn’t simply ask them to leave, though. I could, but there was no good reason.
If they were here, it wasn’t merely to judge me. No, that would be the icing on the cake. This had to be an emergency. Or they wanted something. Regardless, this was my home. I could dress how I wanted, and after they left, I would call my friends, and we could have a bottle of wine—or four—and I could lament.
I would not let my parents get to me or ruin everything.
“Your home is...nice,” Roland, my cousin, said as he looked around, practically bouncing on his feet.
I ignored the sneer in his words. “Thank you. I love it. It fits well into the mountainside.”
“It’s very rural,” my mother remarked. “But quaint.”
I nearly rolled my eyes but held myself back. “I was deep-cleaning the kitchen, so I apologize for the scent of cleaning supplies and my appearance. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Do you not have a cleaning service for that?” my father asked, disappointment evident in his tone.
“I do, but sometimes I like to do an additional clean so I can clear my head. May I ask what brings you here?” I asked. They narrowed their eyes at me. “Not that it’s not a joy to see you, but it’s been a few years, and I didn’t know you were coming.”
“We sent you a certified letter,” my mother said, and I frowned.
“I didn’t receive it. You could have called. Sent an email. A telegram…” I trailed off.
My father interrupted. “There’s no need for that tone.”