“Mommy!”
Her voice broke on the second syllable. I dropped to my knees, catching her as she collided into me, her small body shivering violently. She was freezing.
“Grandma told me to walk home,” she sobbed into my jacket. “She said to walk home in the rain like a stray.”
The words felt unreal, like a line from a cruel play. My mother, Margaret Collins, had said that? My father, Harold Collins, had been there too.
“What do you mean?” I asked gently, though my pulse thundered louder than the storm.
“They had Aunt Rebecca and the twins in the car,” Lily explained between hiccupping breaths. “I ran to the door, but Grandma rolled down the window and said they didn’t have room for me.”
My jaw tightened.
“She said I could walk home if I wanted to,” Lily whispered. “Like a stray.”
The SUV had driven away. Just like that.
Part 2: The Favoritism I Pretended Not to See
The School Pickup Rain Incident didn’t begin that afternoon. It began years ago, though I refused to name it.
