Aunt Cheryl had three children: Maddie, the seemingly flawless seventeen-year-old; Dylan, the mischievous thirteen-year-old prankster; and Lucas, the whiny, pampered nine-year-old. From the moment I arrived, their lives were steeped in luxury – the latest smartphones, designer clothes, and weekly excursions to upscale restaurants.
Meanwhile, I was relegated to the cramped, unfinished, and dusty attic. A solitary lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, casting a dim glow over the piles of old, musty boxes and a sagging twin mattress that served as my bed.
“Why can’t I stay in the guest room downstairs?” I inquired on my very first night.