John and Mary were stuck in their old-fashioned ways, and everyone on their street knew it. They lived by beliefs that were different from their neighbors, and one of their strongest beliefs was that a son was far more valuable than a daughter. They had two children—Lydia, their eldest, and Junior, their youngest. But in their household, being the firstborn meant nothing if you were a girl. From the moment Junior was born, it was clear who the favorite was. Lydia was treated like a shadow in her own home.

I came home expecting a warm, joyful reunion. Instead, I walked into a room full of uneasy glances, hushed whispers, and a secret so big it made me wish I had never come back. For years, I had dreamed of this moment—returning from abroad, stepping through my parents’ front door, and being met with laughter, tight hugs, and maybe even a few happy tears. I had imagined my mom’s arms around me, my dad’s proud smile, my sister Emily squealing with excitement. And I thought I had picked the perfect

When my landlord Amanda heartlessly tossed my belongings into the trash and locked me out of my own apartment without warning, I thought I had lost everything. But just twenty-four hours later, I stood across the street, arms folded, watching her struggle to drag her own furniture to the curb. Eviction notices fluttered on the building door. That was karma—pure, undeniable, and well-deserved. Ever since I turned eighteen, I had one goal: to live on my own. My parents begged me to stay home a little longer. “Evie, why rush?”