Chapter 4

The final goodbye was harder than I imagined, not because of them, but because of the life I was leaving behind. I had to go back one last time to pick up my passport and some legal documents. I timed my visit for when I thought they' d be out.

I was wrong.

As I was about to leave, my documents tucked safely in my bag, Sarah came running down the stairs.

"You' re leaving?" she asked, her voice trembling. She ran towards me, her arms outstretched as if for a hug.

I instinctively stepped back. Her foot caught on the edge of the rug. She let out a cry and tumbled to the floor, landing in a heap.

"Ow! My ankle!" she cried out, her face contorting in pain.

It was a blatant, clumsy fake. I saw her catch the rug on purpose.

Before I could even process the absurdity of it, Mark was there. He had come out of his study, his face a mask of fury. He saw Sarah on the floor, and he saw me standing over her. He didn' t ask what happened. He didn' t hesitate.

His hand flew out and connected with my cheek.

The slap was loud in the silent foyer. The force of it snapped my head to the side, my skin stinging with a sharp, shocking pain.

It was the first time anyone had ever hit me in my life.

I stood there, stunned into silence, the side of my face throbbing.

David came running from the kitchen, his eyes wild.

"What did you do?" he screamed at me, rushing to Sarah' s side. "Are you crazy? You push a girl who' s a guest in this house?"

He cradled Sarah protectively. "Are you okay, honey? Did the evil witch hurt you?"

He looked up at me, his face filled with a venom I had never seen before. "You' re nothing but an orphan we took in! Do you have any idea how much we' ve done for you? And this is how you repay us? With ingratitude and violence?"

Orphan. The word hung in the air, ugly and final. My father had passed away, but my mother was very much alive. He knew that. He said it just to hurt me.

My world, which had been cracking for days, finally shattered. The image of the two loving brothers who had protected me my whole life dissolved completely, replaced by these two cruel strangers.

I touched my stinging cheek. A strange calm washed over the shock. This slap, this final, unforgivable act, was a kind of release.

"It' s fine," I said, my voice quiet but clear. "I don' t blame you."

I looked at Mark, then at David. "Consider this my repayment for all the years of kindness. Now we' re even."

My lack of hysterics seemed to infuriate David even more.

"Even? You think a slap makes us even?" he snarled, getting to his feet. "You' re damn right you don' t blame us! You need to get on your knees and apologize to Sarah right now!"

"No," I said simply. "I didn' t do anything wrong. I will not apologize."

"You will apologize!" David took a menacing step toward me.

I remembered him getting into a fight in high school to defend my honor. He had broken a boy' s nose for calling me a name. He had come home with bruised knuckles and a proud grin, telling me, "No one messes with my Olivia." Now, that same ferocity was directed at me.

Mark, seeing the look on my face, seemed to feel a flicker of guilt. He stepped between us.

"David, that' s enough." He turned to me, his expression softening slightly. "Olivia, look, things are tense. Why don' t you go to the kitchen? I' ll have the cook make you some of those cream pastries you love."

The offer was so absurd, so completely out of touch with reality, that I almost laughed.

"I can' t eat those, Mark," I said, my voice flat. "I haven' t been able to eat them for five years. Not since my stomach problems started."

He stared at me, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. He had forgotten. After years of bringing me medicine and bland food, he had completely forgotten.

My calm, my refusal to break, seemed to be the ultimate provocation for David. As I turned to leave, he stuck his foot out.

I didn' t see it in time. I tripped, my balance gone. I pitched forward, out the open doorway, and landed face-first in the muddy, ruined patch of my lily-of-the-valley garden.

The cold, wet mud splattered across my face and clothes. The pain in my cheek was now joined by a throbbing in my knee.

I looked up from the ground. Mark and David were standing in the doorway, their arms around Sarah, shielding her as if I were some kind of monster. They just watched me.

They didn' t offer a hand. They didn' t ask if I was okay.

They turned, and with Sarah limping dramatically between them, they went back inside and closed the door, leaving me alone in the mud.

I lay there for a long moment, the cold seeping into my bones. Then, slowly, painfully, I pushed myself up. I pulled out my phone, my fingers slick with mud, and I called for an ambulance myself.

At the hospital, the same doctor who had treated my bleeding stomach looked at my bruised cheek and muddy clothes with a tired, sad expression.

"Young lady," he said gently, as he examined my sprained ankle. "You really need to stop letting them do this to you."

I just nodded, accepting the sterile gauze and the quiet hum of the hospital machines. I was done. Completely and utterly done.