Chapter 1

Ms. Harper replied almost at once.

[Have you discussed this with your parents? Westbridge is a long way from New Jersey, and the full research scholarship requires a separate interview.]

[Not yet. But I'm eighteen. I can make this decision for myself.]

"Emilia doesn't look thrilled about boarding."

Sofia's voice briefly silenced the table. She sat between our parents while Mom cut her steak for her. Her carefully concerned expression might have fooled anyone who hadn't grown up with her.

Of course I didn't want to board. Mom owned a penthouse fifteen minutes from school. She would rather leave it empty than let me stay there.

"Can't you cut the adults some slack for once?" Mom frowned. "This acquisition will shape DeLuca Hotels for the next five years. If I let you stay with me and miss one of your emotional crises, you'll accuse me of not caring."

Dad set down his wine. "That's what she does. I missed one parent conference last year, and she barely spoke to me for a week. You'd think I lived off her money."

Mom gave me that familiar, disappointed look. "Your sister just started junior year. This is when college planning matters. Why shouldn't your father meet her counselor first?"

"If junior year matters so much, why didn't either of you come when I was a junior?"

She hesitated. "Sofia had just started high school. We needed to make sure she was settling in."

"Her orientation wasn't on the same day as my conference. You didn't have a conflict. You forgot."

For once, I didn't rush in with an excuse for them.

Dad immediately washed his hands of it. "Your mother had you that year. If anyone owes you an apology, it isn't me."

Sofia tapped her fork against her plate. "Come on, Em. This is the one dinner a year we all have together. Why drag up ancient history over one stupid conference?"

One conference?

I remembered ten years of empty chairs.

I remembered birthday forms returned without signatures and field trips I nearly missed because each parent swore the other had the paperwork. I refused to forge either signature, so I sat outside the office until an administrator reached one of their assistants. Even then, the answer was usually the same: [This isn't our year. Call the other household.]

On move-in day, other parents carried boxes upstairs while I hauled two duffel bags up four flights by myself. At my eighth-grade science fair, a judge asked where my family was. Standing beside my winning project, I lied that Dad's flight had been delayed and Mom had a fever.

They were two blocks away watching Sofia ride in a children's equestrian showcase that didn't even award places.

Sophomore year, the financial aid director called me into her office.

"Emilia, I hope you won't take this the wrong way. Your guardians haven't attended a school event or answered our confirmation emails in years. Are you in foster placement, estranged from them, or experiencing financial hardship?"

Her kindness made the humiliation worse.

"I'm not in foster care. Both my parents live in this city, and money isn't a problem."

After a long pause, she said, "If you ever need help, my door is open."

Last year, I reminded Dad about my parent conference a month in advance. He promised he would come.

That afternoon, I saw him enter the building and stood to greet him. Then Sofia called. He turned around and crossed campus because she wanted help changing an elective.

I sat back down beside his empty chair and waited until the conference ended.

Now ten years of waiting had become one more example of me being difficult.

I looked at Westbridge Institute on my phone, and the last ache in my chest slowly went quiet.

Some love couldn't be earned, no matter how hard you worked for it.

Good thing I was done waiting.