“It was Andrew’s because we gave it to him,” she replied, her voice dripping with ice. “But you never belonged here, Cynthia. A girl from the slums doesn’t become a lady just because she marries a Callahan.

Your little fairy tale is over.”
During the entire time Andrew was sick, his parents barely ever came around. When they did visit the hospital, they didn’t ask how he was feeling or hold his hand.

They only talked about medical bills, private doctors, and how the illness was affecting “the family image.” They hated me from the moment Andrew brought me home. I grew up working two jobs to help my single mom pay rent, and to the high-society Callahans, I was an opportunist who had trapped their golden-boy son. Andrew didn’t care about their money; he loved our big, loud, chaotic family. But now that he was gone, they saw their chance to erase us completely.
Patrick stepped forward, grabbing my arm to shove me toward the open door where the freezing rain was pouring down.

I felt entirely defeated. The grief of losing my husband, combined with the sheer exhaustion of taking care of six children alone, had left me with no fight. I was ready to walk out into the storm and figure out our lives from a motel room just to protect my kids from any more of their cruelty.
But just as I took a step backward into the cold air, my oldest son, Benjamin, stepped right past me. Benjamin is only thirteen years old, but in that moment, he looked like a grown man. His eyes were bright red—not from fear or crying, but from pure, unadulterated rage. He stepped directly between me and his grandfather, forcing Patrick to let go of my arm.

“My dad said my mom would stay here with us. I heard him,” Benjamin said, his voice remarkably steady for a young boy facing down a billionaire.
Patrick scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. “Your father was heavily medicated at the end, boy. He didn’t know what he was saying. This house is in my name, and you’re all leaving tonight.”