“Why can he help you with the numbers and I can’t?” she would shout when she came into the kitchen and saw Marcus and me bent over the bills.
“Because you’d rather be at the mall with your friends,” I’d answer, trying to keep my tone gentle. “You can sit with us any time you want.”
I tried to split myself down the middle, to be two different mothers for two different children. But Marcus had endured so much hurt in such a short life that he needed more of me. And he took every piece of care I offered as if it were priceless.
When he was twelve, I adopted him officially. The day the papers were signed, we took a picture—him, in an ironed shirt that was slightly too big, me with my arm around his shoulders, both of us grinning like fools.
“He’s not my brother,” Holly announced at the small celebration I prepared. “He never will be.”
Marcus acted like it didn’t bother him. But later that night, I found him in the barn, his face buried in his hands.
“Do you think I should leave?” he asked quietly. “Holly would be happier if I weren’t here.”
“You are not going anywhere,” I told him, pulling him into a hug. “This is your home. You are my son just as much as she is my daughter.”
Holly never forgave me for that sentence.
Marcus excelled in high school. Honor rolls, science fairs, teachers calling me in to say, “This boy has a future. You should think about universities.” Holly barely scraped by. She preferred parties and shopping to homework.
“Of course he gets everything,” she yelled. “The perfect son who was never even your real son.”
“Holly, please,” I said, feeling like I was talking to a stranger.
“I’m sick of this. It’s always Marcus this, Marcus that. What about me? What about your real daughter?”
“You are both my real children,” I insisted.
“Liar,” she spat, eyes cold in a way I had never seen before. “You’ve always loved him more. I wish he had never come here.”
Marcus heard it all from the stairs.
That night, he sat at the kitchen table, turning his scholarship letter over and over.
“Don’t say that,” I begged. “This will always be your home.”
But the seed had been planted. When he left, our phone calls still came regularly at first, but slowly they became shorter, less frequent. He spent summers doing internships instead of coming back to the farm. He was moving into a world that no longer looked anything like mine.
Holly, meanwhile, met Ethan. Ten years older, money, connections, a new car and a smug smile. They married when she was twenty, and from that day forward, she treated the farm—and me—as something from a life she was done with.
“You shouldn’t work so hard,” Ethan would say, strolling around the property with his hands in his pockets. “Sell this old place. Buy a little house in the suburbs. Live easy.”
But I loved my farm. It was my story written in soil and sweat.
Marcus graduated with honors and landed a job in New York at a major real estate company. He climbed fast. His letters turned into emails, his emails into occasional calls. He sent money, quietly paying off bills I never told him about. I could feel him pulling further away—but I also knew he had never forgotten me entirely.
The last time I saw him was ten years ago, at my sister’s funeral. He arrived in an expensive car, wearing a suit that looked like it belonged in a glossy magazine. But when he hugged me and said, “Are you okay, Mom?” he was still my boy.
“I’m fine,” I lied, because the farm was already in trouble and I didn’t want to be one more burden on his shoulders.
Holly barely looked at him that day. She treated him like he was a guest, not the boy who had once shared her childhood home.
Now, years later, I stood in the rain outside her mansion as the sound of rotor blades started to fill the sky.
At first, I thought I was imagining it. But then the sound grew louder, the wind picked up, and the neighbors came out of their houses, their phones already in their hands.
A sleek black helicopter descended from the gray clouds as if it belonged in another world. The blades sent ripples across the puddles on the street, tossing leaves into the air. Gold lettering glinted on the side, though I couldn’t read it from where I stood. It looked… expensive. Powerful.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
No. It couldn’t be.
The helicopter landed on the empty plot across from Holly’s house. The door opened, and a man stepped out.
For a moment, I didn’t recognize him. Tall. Confident. Dark hair perfectly styled. A suit that probably cost more than I made in an entire year of selling produce and milk. Sunglasses that hid his eyes, but not the weight of his presence.
Then he took the glasses off.
And there he was.
The same dark eyes. The same shy curve to his smile, hiding behind all that success.
“Mom,” he said, his voice breaking.
He didn’t care about the neighbors, or about his shoes, or about the rain. He ran across the street and pulled me into a hug so tight I could barely breathe. I clung to his jacket, smelling a cologne I didn’t recognize and the faint, familiar scent of the boy I had once tucked into bed.
“You’re soaked,” he murmured. “How long have you been out here?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, my voice shaking. “You came. You really came.”
“Of course I came,” he answered, pulling back to look at me. “You’re my mother. I will always come when you need me. That’s not negotiable.”
He took off his cashmere coat and wrapped it around my shoulders, the fabric soft and warm, a sharp contrast to the cold rain and colder rejection I’d just endured.
“What happened?” he asked, holding my hands between his.
I told him everything. The fire. The insurance. The long drive from the farm. Holly. Ethan. The words “people like you.”
By the time I finished, there was a storm brewing in his eyes that had nothing to do with the weather.
“They said what?” he asked quietly.
“Marcus, I don’t want to cause problems,” I said quickly. “I just needed—”
“You needed a safe place,” he said, his jaw tightening. “You came to your own daughter. She closed the door. That’s not a ‘problem.’ That’s a truth.”
He straightened, still holding my hands.
“You’re coming with me,” he said. “You are home now. And you will never have to beg anyone for a roof over your head ever again.”
As if on cue, the front door of Holly’s house opened. My daughter stepped out, now in a different dress, her hair neatly fixed, makeup retouched. Ethan followed, his expression tight.
“Excuse me,” Holly called out, forcing a smile as she approached. “Is there a problem with the noise? The neighbors are complaining about the helicopter.”
Marcus turned to face her slowly. He didn’t say a word. He just looked at her, long and steady.
“Holly,” I said, suddenly nervous. “This is Marcus. Do you remember him?”
The smile slid off her face like makeup in the rain. Her gaze flickered from Marcus to the helicopter and back.
“Marcus,” she whispered. “Marcus Rivers.”
“Hello, sister,” he said, his voice flat.
There was no affection in that word. No warmth. Only distance and a quiet judgment that made my heart ache.
Ethan hurried down the steps, extending his hand with that practiced, oily grin.
“What a surprise,” he said. “I’m Ethan Miller, Holly’s husband. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Marcus let his eyes drift to Ethan’s outstretched hand, then back to his face.
“I doubt that,” he said calmly, making no move to shake.
The air around us felt heavy, charged. Holly twisted her fingers together. Ethan withdrew his hand, jaw tightening.
“Well,” Holly began, stretching her fake smile back into place, “how wonderful that you came to visit, Mom. Although maybe next time you could land somewhere else. This is a very exclusive neighborhood and—”
“I know,” Marcus said, cutting her off. “I know this neighborhood very well.”
Something in his tone made Holly fall silent immediately.
“In fact,” he continued, “I know most of the people who live here.”
“What do you mean?” Ethan asked.
“They’re my clients,” Marcus replied simply.
Ethan blinked. “Your clients?”
Marcus smiled, but it was a sharp, cold smile.
“I own the bank that finances most of the mortgages in this neighborhood,” he said. “Including yours.”
I watched the blood drain from Ethan’s face.
“Your… bank?” he stammered.
“Rivers Holdings Group,” Marcus said. “Maybe you’ve heard of it. We’re one of the largest real estate companies in the country. We also have holdings in banking, construction, and urban development.”
Holly swayed slightly, as if her legs had forgotten how to hold her up.
“Are you… are you a millionaire?” she whispered.
“A multi-billionaire,” Marcus corrected, not bragging, just stating a fact. “But that’s not the important part.”
He turned to me, and his entire expression softened again.
“The important part is that my mother needed help. So I came.”
“Your mother?” Ethan repeated, his mask cracking. “She’s not your mother. She’s just the woman who raised you for a few years.”
The change in Marcus was immediate and unmistakable. His face went still. His eyes hardened. He took one step forward, and Ethan actually flinched.
“Be very careful,” Marcus said, his voice low and controlled, “about how you talk about my mother.”
“Marcus,” I said quickly, touching his arm. “He’s not worth it.”
Marcus looked at me, took a slow breath, and stepped back.
“You’re right,” he said softly. “He’s not.”
Then he turned back to them, voice cool again.
“By the way,” he said, “you’re going to receive a letter from my bank tomorrow morning. I suggest you read it very carefully.”
“What kind of letter?” Holly asked, her voice trembling.
“A review of your mortgage terms,” Marcus replied. “It seems there have been… irregularities in your payment history and in your original documentation.”
Ethan went from pale to almost translucent.
“But don’t worry,” Marcus added, glancing at his watch. “You’ll have plenty of time to deal with it. Let’s say… seventy-two hours.”
“Seventy-two hours for what?” Holly asked, panic rising.
“To decide whether you want to keep this house,” Marcus said. “Or hand it over to me before I find out what else you’ve been hiding.”
The only sounds after that were the distant hum of the helicopter’s engine and the rain sliding off the roof.
“Let’s go, Mom,” Marcus said, wrapping his arm around my shoulders.
As we walked toward the helicopter, I heard Holly’s voice break behind us.
“Marcus! Wait! We can talk about this!”
He didn’t turn around. He kept me under his arm, shielding me from the rain, as if I were the only person in that entire neighborhood who mattered.
Inside the helicopter, the world below us shrank. Houses became toy models. The fountain in front of Holly’s house looked like nothing more than a decorative dot.
“Are you really the owner of their bank?” I asked, struggling to wrap my head around it.
“Among other things,” he said, buckling my seat belt like he used to buckle his own when he was a boy and I was the one checking the strap. “I’ve been watching this family for years, Mom. Waiting for the right moment.”
“Waiting for what?”
He took my hand. Continue reading…
