Chapter 4
Zoey's POV
Melissa's jaw tightened. "Zoey. Don't start."
"I'm not starting anything."
"Then why are you being like this? We're trying."
I picked up my plate and walked to the kitchen.
"Every single time," Daniel muttered behind me. "We do something nice and she makes it weird."
"Just ignore it," Melissa said. "She wants attention."
I ran the faucet cold and stood there until my hands went numb.
They're trying. That's what they told themselves. That the keychain was thoughtful. That offering me a concert I'd stopped caring about five years ago was generous. That none of this was their fault.
I turned off the water and dried my hands. I left the bear on the counter.
Three days.
Three days before Boston, Daniel and Melissa decided to throw a small dinner at the apartment. A send-off for Grace—the real celebration, with a few close relatives.
I was planning to stay in my room, same as always.
But Melissa actually called for me.
"Zoey! Get the salad out of the kitchen. And pull the turkey out of the oven." She said it from the couch, over her shoulder, like I was staff.
I put on the oven mitts and hauled the roasting pan out.
The living room was full. Grace sat in the middle of it—Aunt Mary on one side, Uncle John on the other, three cousins leaning in. Laughing at everything she said.
"Oh, Grace, you get prettier every time I see you!" Aunt Mary gushed. "I heard you applied to USC? That's a fantastic school!"
"She's always been our star," Daniel said, chest puffed out. "We've got big plans for that one."
I carried the turkey past the whole circle. Nobody looked up.
"So what about Zoey?" Uncle John asked. "Where's she headed?"
The room went still.
Daniel's smile froze. Melissa cleared her throat.
"Oh, she'll probably do community college," Daniel said, waving a hand. "Her grades are average. And honestly, community college is a smart move—stay home, save money."
"Right, exactly," Melissa jumped in. "She's a girl. She just needs a decent education and a good husband. No need to go crazy."
I set the turkey down on the table.
Community college. Save money.
They didn't know about Harvard. They didn't know about the scholarship. They didn't even know which schools I'd applied to.
They'd never asked.
"Zoey, pour the juice," Melissa said, shooing me with two fingers.
I picked up the pitcher.
"Danny, that convertible you got Grace is gorgeous," Uncle John said. "What'd that run you?"
"Eh, doesn't matter. Whatever she wants." Daniel leaned back, smug. "That's how you raise a girl. You spoil her."
I poured. Steady hand. Not one drop spilled.
Spoil her. Sure. Grace was the princess. I was the weed growing in the cracks of the driveway.
Dinner started at seven. I was seated at the very end of the table—the farthest chair, practically in the hallway.
I ate and listened.
"Grace, sweetheart, you call me the second you need anything at school," Daniel said, eyes soft. "Anything at all. Daddy will buy it."
"Thanks, Dad! Love you!" Grace blew him a kiss.
"I'll come visit every month," Melissa said. "I'll bring you those little cookies you like."
Grace beamed. Daniel beamed. Melissa beamed.
I watched the three of them and felt my stomach turn.
I set down my fork, wiped my mouth, and stood.
"I'm full. I'm going to my room."
"Go ahead," Melissa said, not even looking up. "And do the kitchen before you turn in."
I went back to my room, locked the door, and pulled out a sheet of notebook paper.
I was going to write them a letter.
I wanted to put it all down—every Christmas, every school event, every time they split Grace's custody like a pie chart and forgot there was a second kid in the car. I wanted to tell them I'd cried about it. That I'd stopped.
I got two words in.
Dear Daniel—
I stared at it. The pen hovered over the page.
And then I thought: what's the point?
What was I going to say? I got into Harvard? They'd think I was lying, or that I was trying to make them feel bad. I hate you? They'd roll their eyes and say I was dramatic.
They weren't going to read it. They weren't going to change. And I was done asking to be seen by people who'd already decided I wasn't worth looking at.
I crumpled the paper and dropped it in the trash.
I didn't need their apology. I didn't need their guilt.
I just needed to leave.
The next morning, Daniel and Melissa took Grace to the coast. A beach weekend to celebrate her last summer before college.
The apartment was mine again.
I cleaned it. All of it. I scrubbed the kitchen floor I'd mopped for free since I was eleven. I wiped the counters. I vacuumed the rug. I made my bed with corners so sharp you could bounce a quarter off them.
Then I packed up everything that belonged to me. All of it fit in the suitcase. And nothing that wasn't mine came with me—not a pen, not a paperback, not a single thing I hadn't paid for myself.
I left two things on the kitchen table.
My key. And the fifty-dollar bill Daniel had handed me two weeks ago.
I hadn't spent a cent of it. Not one.
I pulled my backpack onto my shoulders and grabbed the suitcase handle. I took one last look around the apartment—the granite counters, the big TV, the portrait I wasn't really in.
Then I walked out the door.
The L.A. sun hit me like a wall. Bright. Blinding. The kind of heat that makes the air shimmer off the pavement.
I should have felt scared. I was eighteen, alone, flying two thousand miles with a suitcase half my classmates would've called too small for a weekend.
Instead, I felt light.
Goodbye, Daniel. Goodbye, Melissa. Goodbye, Grace.
I didn't look back at the window. I didn't look back at all.
From today on, I was nobody's leftover daughter.
I was Zoey.
A free Zoey.
