She turned more reserved and more earnest.
As though sorrow had matured her beyond her chronological age.
My son’s first wife died when Olivia was eight.
My male offspring, Scott, entered a second marriage three years subsequently to a female designated Lydia.
She entered our existences with a welcoming smirk and a soft utterance, and everyone presumed she was precisely what Scott and Olivia required.
However, I detected matters.
Minor remarks directed toward Olivia when Lydia believed no soul was attending.
“You’re old enough to move on now, Olivia.”
“Stop being so emotional about everything.”
“Your mom wouldn’t want you moping around like this.”
My son, Scott, remarried three years later to a woman named Lydia.
Subsequently, Lydia and Scott produced twins.
Two gorgeous, draining toddlers who vocalized in unison and possessed an unearthly capacity to demolish an immaculate chamber in under three minutes.
And from that instance forward, Olivia ceased to be a daughter in that residence.
She transformed into uncompensated labor.
I restrained my utterances for a protracted duration.
Informed myself it constituted Scott’s domestic circle, his selection, not my domain to intercede.
Until three weeks previously…
Olivia’s educational transit vehicle was involved in a collision.
And from that moment on, Olivia stopped being a daughter in that house.
READ MORE ON THE NEXT PAGE…
