I hid for 3 years that I won $450 million in the lottery while being treated like garbage, until I showed up in a Bugatti to collect my things.

Three years of being treated like a stain they tolerated only because removing me would have required acknowledging I existed.

And now she was calling.

I let it ring until the screen went dark.

Then it rang again.

And again.

By the fourth call, I finally pressed accept.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

I could hear her breathing.

Unsteady.

Fragile.

Nothing like the woman who had looked at the cake I made with my own hands and dropped it into the garbage as if it had contaminated her kitchen.

“Adrian…” she whispered.

It was strange hearing my name in her voice.

She almost never used it.

Usually it was him.
Or your brother.
Or simply silence.

I kept my eyes on the road.

“Yes?”

Her voice cracked.

“Please come back.”

Not how could you.
Not why didn’t you tell us.
Not we were