Three Days After My Mother Died My Father Brought His Bastard Daughter Home

The day I was brought to the Redwood house, I was a secret made flesh. And Owen, my half-brother, shattered every piece of furniture he could get his hands on.

My mother has been dead for three days! And you bring this… thing into her house?

A sister? I don't have a goddamn sister!

Shards of glass from a shattered vase nearly sliced my eye open. The shock of it all stole my voice, clamping my throat shut until not a single sound could escape.

My father had brought me here, but that was the extent of his involvement. He never looked at me, never spoke to me. Owen hated me, which meant he ignored me completely.

Later, when the Redwood fortune crumbled and our father was gone, I was the only family he had left.

Owen grabbed my tiny arm, ready to throw me out onto the street. The tears I had held back for so long finally broke free. I clung to his leg, my sealed lips finally parting, forcing out broken, clumsy words.

"Owen… I'll be good. Please… don't throw me away…"

1

Owen Redwood hated me.

I learned this on my very first night in his house.

I was sitting on a velvet sofa, my small hands turning over the brand-new Barbie my father had bought me. Owen walked in, his school backpack slung over one shoulder, his face a mask of indifference.

The first time he saw me, his voice was flat, lifeless.

"Whose kid are you?"

I scrambled off the sofa, suddenly self-conscious, hiding the doll behind my back. "Dad brought me," I whispered.

Owen tilted his head, repeating the word without any inflection, as if it were foreign.

"Dad?"

Just then, my father's voice drifted down from the second-floor landing. He was wearing a silk robe, a placid smile on his face.

"Owen, you're home. Come meet your sister. She’s only four. Her name is Poppy. From now on, we’re all a family. You're the big brother, so you need to take care of her."

My eyes widened with a cautious sort of wonder.

Before this, I’d lived with a nanny in a small town down south. Dad didn’t visit often. The nanny rarely fed me enough and always called me the child of a homewrecker. She said my mother was Dad’s mistress, that she’d used my existence to squeeze a fortune out of him.

The neighborhood kids would point and shout names at me—dirty little secret, bastard child. I didn't understand all the words, but I understood the feeling behind them. I was a child who was meant to be hated.

Then, yesterday, Dad had shown up out of the blue and said he was taking me to a new home.

I peeked at the boy in front of me, a tiny bud of happiness blooming in my chest.

I have a brother.

I bit my lip and took a hesitant step forward, my hand reaching out to take his.

"Hi, Owen."

He stared at me for a long moment, and then a strange, brittle laugh escaped his lips. As he laughed, his eyes slowly filled with red.

He dropped his backpack, jerked his hand away from mine, and snatched a water glass from a side table. With a furious roar, he hurled it toward the second floor.

"My mother has been dead for three days! And you bring this… thing into her house?"

"A sister? I don't have a goddamn sister!"

It was like a dam had broken inside him. He was gasping for breath, his chest heaving. He kicked a chair over, sending it crashing into the wall.

A vase. An ashtray.

Anything within his line of sight, he grabbed and smashed onto the floor. He screamed like a caged animal, his rage directed at our father, who watched from the landing with an unnerving calm.

I was frozen, paralyzed by the storm of his fury.

Then, an explosion of sound erupted right next to my ear.

A sliver of broken glass shot past my face, so close I felt its wind.

My mouth fell open. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. A wave of pure, absolute terror washed over me, and from that moment on, I couldn't speak another word.

2

"Poppy, go tell your brother it's time for dinner."

My father sat at the head of the long dining table, his tone gentle but firm.

I clutched my little bowl, glanced at him nervously, and shook my head.

I was afraid of Owen.

After his rampage, a doctor had come to the house. He said I had selective mutism. After many tests, he concluded it was a psychological issue.

My father’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. "Poppy, Owen is your brother. Your own flesh and blood. Where's the deep-seated hatred in that?"

He set down his chopsticks. "I have some business to attend to, so I won’t be home much for a while. You need to learn to get along with your brother."

My head drooped. I pushed myself off my chair, my body feeling heavy and numb.

I had been in this house for nearly a week. I’d learned a few things in that time. My mother and Owen’s mother weren’t the only women in our father’s life. There were countless other pretty ladies. Which meant he had countless other homes.

Holding a small bowl of soup, I shuffled to Owen’s bedroom door. My mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Dad told me to get along with him.

I sniffled and knocked softly on the door.

As expected, there was no answer.

I sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall with the soup in my lap, and waited for him to wake up. I hadn’t been sleeping well. The exhaustion was a heavy blanket, and sitting there in the quiet hallway, my eyes fluttered shut.

A shadow fell over me.

I rubbed my eyes and looked up. Owen was standing there, his hands shoved in his pockets, looking down at me with that same blank expression.

I scrambled to my feet and offered him the bowl of soup.

Owen. Dinner.

A cold smirk twisted his lips.

He slapped the bowl from my hands.

The clatter of shattering ceramic on the hardwood floor made my scalp tingle with fear. My lower lip trembled, and I wanted to cry, but I held it in.

I wanted to go home.

But I didn't know where home was anymore.

3

The Redwood’s housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, was kind.

She would make me a soft, creamy custard and sit by my bed at night, patting my back until I fell asleep. I adored her. I followed her around the house like a little duckling.

One evening, she was leaving earlier than usual. A lump formed in my throat, and I wrapped my arms around her leg, refusing to let go.

Mrs. Gable sighed, then scooped me into her arms. She pointed toward Owen’s room.

"Poppy, you need to remember, your brother is your family now. You have to make him like you," she whispered. "He just seems cold, that's all. A sweet girl like you… he'll come around. He will."

I looked toward his closed door, my vision blurry with tears. Her reassuring gaze gave me the strength to loosen my grip.

My father never came back.

Owen was eighteen and about to graduate high school, so he was rarely home either.

Most days, I was alone, curled up on the sofa with my doll.

At nine-thirty, Owen finally came home from school. I watched him, my eyes wide and hopeful. Even though I was scared of him, even though I knew he hated me, some broken part of me still clung to him.

I had no one else.

This house was so big, and besides Mrs. Gable, no one ever spoke to me.

As usual, Owen acted as if I were invisible. He dropped his bag and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. I trailed behind him slowly, my head bowed, not daring to meet his eyes.

When he finished his water, he found me blocking his path back to his room.

"Move."

I scurried out of his way. But then I followed him, step for step, up the grand staircase.

Owen stopped on the landing.

"Stop following me. My mother only had one child. I don't have a goddamn sister."

The words were like a slap. Humiliation stung my eyes, and tears began to fall. My throat felt tight and raw.

I wiped my eyes and ran.

4

Owen’s final exams were approaching.

Mrs. Gable told me this was a very important time for him.

The memory of his harsh words faded, replaced by a surge of childish purpose. I sat at the kitchen table, drawing with a box of crayons.

When Owen came downstairs the next morning, his expression as cool as ever, I was waiting for him by the front door, holding up my drawing.

On it, I had written in big, wobbly letters:

GOOD LUCK OWEN.

YOU ARE THE BEST BROTHER.

I HOPE EVERYTHING GOES WELL.

I hid my face behind the paper, peeking over the top with hopeful eyes.

Owen glanced at it as he walked past.

He didn't say a word, didn't even break his stride, but after the front door clicked shut, I jumped up and down with pure joy.

He saw it! He saw it!

…

For three straight mornings, I waited by the door to see him off.

On the evening of his last exam, he came home. I ran toward him excitedly, then stopped a safe distance away, a hopeful smile on my face.

But Owen just walked past me in silence and went straight to his room. He didn’t even come down for dinner.

Later that night, I crept out of my room for a glass of water. As I passed his door, I heard a sound—a choked, stifled sob.

I instinctively moved closer and pushed the door open a crack.

In the moonlight streaming through the window, I could see Owen tossing and turning in his sleep. Tears stained his cheeks, and his lips moved, as if he were trapped in a nightmare he couldn't escape.

I held my breath, then tiptoed over to his nightstand, pulled out a tissue, and clumsily reached out to wipe the tears from his eyes.

That’s when I heard him whisper.

Over and over, his voice was small and lost, full of a pain I didn't understand.

He was calling for his mom.

He said he was grown up now, so why couldn’t she have waited for him just a little longer?

Is my brother missing his mom?

My hand trembled as I touched the tissue to his face. The movement startled him.

His eyes snapped open. The instant our gazes met, I spun around and bolted from the room, terrified that his anger would erupt all over again.

5

After that night, the fragile tension between us seemed to ease, just a little.

He started letting me sit at the same table with him for meals.

I was so happy I ate an extra half-bowl of everything.

Just when I was beginning to think that this was how we would live, together, a single phone call shattered the fragile peace.

Our father was dead.

I watched Owen take the call, saw him rise from the sofa, his brow furrowing into a tight knot. I stood up too, clutching my doll, my mind a complete blank.

It happened so fast.

Moments later, a group of strangers burst into our home. They started grabbing things, smashing things. I scrambled into a corner, shaking.

A burly man grabbed Owen by the arm, his voice gravelly and mean.

"You're the Redwood kid, right? Last month, your old man's company had some structural issues. To get a controlling stake, your dad borrowed a hefty sum from us. He promised to pay it back this month, but now I hear his partners took the money and ran."

The man flicked ash from his cigarette onto our marble floor and sneered.

"We went to his office to have a talk, but he took a leap off the damn roof instead. The old man can run, but the kid can't. So, you tell me. How are you gonna make this right?"

Owen looked stunned, but he collected himself quickly. "Let's all calm down. I've already contacted my father's lawyer and his assistant. If he truly owes you money, I will pay back every cent, as long as it's within legal bounds."

It was as if Owen’s slender frame suddenly grew taller, stronger. His calm, steady demeanor actually made the burly man raise an eyebrow.

"Big words from a kid who hasn't even started shaving."

The man took a step forward, ready to issue another threat, but he was suddenly shoved backward, stumbling.

I stood there, my face pale, my small hands trembling as I pushed him with all my might, planting myself in front of Owen.

You will not bully my brother anymore!

6

Soon, a team of lawyers arrived.

After a tense standoff, a final resolution was reached. Our father's company would be liquidated. The mansion, several other properties, and a fleet of luxury cars would be auctioned off. It was just enough to cover the debt.

Owen let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for days.

"We'll be out by tomorrow. Thank you for your assistance."

The lawyers gave Owen a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and left with the group of thugs.

Silence descended upon the house once more.

I sat close to Owen, unable to help in any way.

I don't know how much time passed before he finally moved, rolling his stiff neck. His eyes swept over the grand, empty room, and finally, they landed on me.

I pressed my lips together, about to offer him a small smile.

But Owen suddenly shot to his feet, grabbed my arm, and started pulling me toward the door.

I stumbled along behind him as he dragged me outside. He pushed me out onto the porch and his voice was as cold as ice.

"The Redwood name is gone. Go back to wherever you came from."

He pulled a few crumpled bills from his pocket and threw them on the ground.

"Find a cop. They'll know what to do with you."

He turned to shut the heavy oak door.

The finality of it shocked me back to life. I lunged forward, wrapping my arms around his leg and shaking my head frantically. I won't go.

But Owen was surprisingly strong.

He pried my hands off, his own eyes now red and raw as he roared at me, "Go! This was never your home! How long are you going to freeload here? I never accepted you as my sister! You're nothing but a burden! A leech! Get out!"

My face crumpled. The tears I’d held back for so long finally streamed down my cheeks.

I lunged for him again, clinging to his leg with all my strength.

He's all I have left.

My mouth opened, and a broken sound finally escaped my dry, tight throat.

"O-Owen!"

The sound was hoarse, unfamiliar.

"I'll be… good! I'll be so good! Please… don't throw me away."

"You're all I have. Please don't leave me, please don't leave me."

I was sobbing now, great, heaving cries, clinging to him as if he were the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.

I just want my brother.

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