After losing her parents at ten, Mandy was taken in by a couple who promised to care for her. Instead, they used her inheritance to fund their luxuries and spoil their daughter. She said nothing for years… but she was always watching.
When I was ten, my parents were killed in a hit-and-run. With no family to take me in, the foster system loomed ahead like a dark tunnel.
Then a couple from our church stepped up. David and Margaret stood before the congregation, hands clasped together, announcing they had been “called by God” to take me in.
I soon moved into their two-story colonial with perfect green shutters and a wreath on the door no matter the season.
Their daughter Elise was 11, just a year older than me.
That first night, after the church ladies had delivered casseroles, the front door closed with a click that sounded like a vault sealing shut.
“Your room is upstairs, the last door on the left,” Margaret said, suddenly businesslike. “There’s a bathroom across the hall you’ll share with Elise. We expect it kept clean.”
Gone was the warm, teary-eyed woman.
This Margaret stood straight-backed in her living room, already reviewing house rules about curfews and chores.
“We run a tight ship here,” David added from behind his newspaper. He never looked up. “Margaret will get you some of Elise’s old clothes tomorrow. No need to waste money when we’ve got perfectly good hand-me-downs.”
I nodded, clutching my small suitcase of belongings.
I stood frozen until Margaret looked at me again.
“Well? Do you need something?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then why don’t you go unpack? Dinner’s at six sharp.”
I learned quickly that the Taylors had two faces.
Their public faces beamed with benevolence, but their private faces hardened with inconvenience.
In public, David would rest his hand on my shoulder, telling people how blessed they were to have me.
At home, he barely acknowledged my existence except to critique my manners or schoolwork.
The money started coming about a month after I moved in. I overheard them in the kitchen one night.
“The state check came today,” Margaret whispered excitedly.
“And her father’s estate finally released the first payment from the trust. It’s more than we expected. This is a blessing. We should put some aside for Elise’s college fund,” Margaret continued. “And buy her some nice clothes. Perhaps get a new car…”
“What about her?” David asked.
He didn’t say my name, I knew who he meant.
“She has scholarships if she wants college. Besides, we’re providing everything she needs right now. Food, shelter, guidance. That’s more than most orphans get.”
That word — orphan — cut through me like a blade. I wasn’t just a girl who’d lost her parents. I was a category now. A charity case.
And so it continued.
Elise got a car for her 16th birthday while I rode the bus. She wore designer clothes while I got her castoffs. They booked holidays to Florida and the Grand Canyon.
But that’s not the only way they profited off me.
Six months after I arrived, Margaret decided to “sort through” my mother’s antique shop inventory.
Mom had owned a small but well-respected shop downtown, specializing in European pieces.
After her death, everything went into storage until I was old enough to decide what to do with it.
But Margaret had other ideas.
“Most of this should be sold,” she announced one Saturday, clipboard in hand as we stood in the storage unit. “The proceeds can go toward your living expenses. We can also donate
What happened next changed everything…
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