been counting down days, like someone who had a right to be there.
The door opened, and the warmth I’d imagined didn’t come rushing out.
Linda stood there.
My stepmother.
Her hair was styled like she’d just come back from a salon. Her blouse looked crisp. And her eyes—those sharp, measured eyes—scanned me from head to toe like I was a problem arriving on schedule.
For one second, I thought she might flinch.
Or soften.
Or at least look surprised.
Instead, her expression stayed flat.
“You’re out,” she said, like
