I Give Up My Heiress Title For The Wind In The Wild

During graduation trip talks, my foster sister Monica and I argued. I wanted the American Southwest; she chose Iceland. Wyatt, grinning, said, Icelands perfect! My new DSLR will capture Monica beautifully. Parents nodded. Scenerys great. Her new down coat fits the weather.

They looked a perfect family. No one noticed the Southwest itinerary Id spent two weeks planning, hidden under the fruit bowl. I tried to speak, but Wyatt cut in, frowning. Southwests dust and sun. Monicas too fragile for that. Howd she survive?

Mom slid a $2,000 gift card across the table. Deserts not going anywhere. Let Monica have this. Ill take you next year. I stared at the card, bitter smile on my lips, silent.

Three years ago, theyd wept, promising a family Southwest trip post-graduation to make up for my 18 lost years. But Id learned: Monicas tears meant I yielded. My things, space, even their promisessacrificed for her. Blood meant nothing against favoritism.

Since Id never win against their precious foster daughter, I quit their game. They could have Iceland. Id take the long train to the desert alone. From now on, my own path. They could keep their high society and the Presley real daughter title.

Wyatt noticed me staring silently at the gift card, and his scowl deepened. He reached over, snatched the detailed road trip itinerary from under the fruit bowl, and held it by the corner with obvious disgust.

"What is this garbage? It's just in the way, wrinkling Monica's visa documents."

With a careless twist of his wrists, he crumpled the thick packet of paper, along with the translated documents for the DuPont merger I had stayed up all night to finish for my father, and threw them into the trash can.

I stared at the crumpled paper, taking a slow, deep breath.

When the Presleys first brought me back from the desert, my father had gripped my hands with tears in his eyes. Evelyn, you've suffered so much. When you graduate, I will rent two off-road vehicles and the whole family will take you back to the desert to see the golden cottonwoods.

I had held onto that promise for three long years. I had researched every supply station, mapped out every mile, and calculated every stop.

And for what?

Monica only had to squeeze out a few tears and whisper, I heard the Northern Lights can bring a lifetime of good fortune. With my weak health, I don't know if I'll live long enough to see them again, and every single plan was instantly obliterated.

"Evelyn, do not start throwing a tantrum now," my father warned, his eyes flashing with irritation. "Our trip to Iceland is partly to meet with the executives of the DuPont Group at their private golf club. This is a matter of our family's standing in high society. As our biological daughter, do you lack even this basic sense of the bigger picture?"

Monica's eyes immediately pooled with tears. "Dad, please don't fight. It's all my fault for having such poor health. If Evelyn really wants to go to the desert, I... I don't have to go to Iceland. You should all go with Evelyn instead."

"What are you talking about?" Wyatt snapped, turning his glare back to me. "Evelyn, are you completely heartless? The Southwest is a wasteland of dust and scorching UV rays. Monica would lose a layer of skin out there! Do you have to torture her to be satisfied?"

Looking at the three of them standing united against me, I felt as though a lump of lead was wedged in my throat, impossible to swallow or spit out.

I took a step toward the trash can, wanting to salvage the itinerary that had cost me so many sleepless nights. But Wyatt kicked the bin away, letting out a sharp laugh.

"What, still haven't given up? What use is this stupid paper anyway, other than letting you play the victim?"

I stood frozen, my fingernails digging into my palms until they bled. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and looked up with perfect calm.

"Fine. I'll go get my passport."

Hearing my surrender, my mother's face finally relaxed. "That's my sensible girl. Go get the original documents. The travel agency is waiting to finalize the booking."

I turned and walked back to my small room, which was essentially a converted maid's quarters in the corner of the first floor.

Once I handed my passport to the waiting butler, I shut the door, cutting off the sounds of their laughter as they discussed the northern lights.

Sitting on my narrow single bed, I pulled out my cracked phone and opened a travel app. I entered the coordinates of the Southwest desert, setting the departure date for the exact same day they were scheduled to fly to Iceland.

Since they wanted to see the northern lights, I would see the golden cottonwoods by myself.

When the confirmation screen flashed, showing my purchase of a one-way ticket on a slow, regional train, a soft smile finally touched my lips.

A single, one-way ticket. It was my passage to freedom.

To prepare for the trip, the family drove to a high-end outdoor gear store in the city center the following morning. Monica drifted through the racks of premium winter coats, with my mother and Wyatt following close behind, carrying hats and gloves for her to try.

I walked silently at the very back of the group.

"Excuse me, ma'am," a sales associate said, stepping up to me and handing me a stack of heavy coats. "Could you please carry these to the fitting room for our young lady?"

The entire group went quiet.

Monica bit her lip to hide a smug smile, making absolutely no effort to clarify who I was.

I took the coats without a word. My mother finally seemed to realize what was happening and cleared her throat, looking slightly embarrassed. "This is actually our... our oldest daughter."

The associate apologized profusely, but I had already turned and walked toward the fitting room. Over the last three years, I had grown completely numb to being mistaken for a maid or a hired hand.

When we reached the register, my father swiped his card for fifteen thousand dollars without blinking, purchasing Monica's entire set of premium gear.

Only as we were preparing to leave did my mother seem to notice my empty hands. She turned back to the clearance rack, grabbed an outdated, oversized utility jacket, and tossed it into my arms.

"You can wear this. You're used to the cold from your childhood in the countryside anyway. Even with the discount, this still cost over two hundred dollars."

Monica looked at the cheap jacket in my hands, putting on her best display of sweet generosity. "Mom, that jacket is far too thin for Iceland. Why don't I give Evelyn the red coat I bought in Switzerland last year? It's a bit worn, but it's very warm."

Offering me her discarded hand-me-downs to highlight her own saintly nature was her favorite game.

I stepped aside, avoiding her touch. "No, thank you. I don't need it."

"Evelyn, what is with that attitude?" my father barked, his voice sharp with anger. "You've been back with us for three years, and you still haven't lost that bitter, sensitive pride from the gutter! Monica is trying to be kind to you, and you treat her like this?"

Wyatt was busy adjusting his camera, not even looking up. "Dad, don't waste your breath on her. When we get to Iceland, I'm only taking photos of Monica anyway. Even if Evelyn freezes to death, I won't waste a single frame on her."

When we returned home, the dining table was laden with a massive seafood feast to celebrate the approval of our visas. There were oysters, lobster tails, and a large bowl of steamed crab cakes.

I stood by the table, making no move to sit down.

"I had stomach surgery last month," I said quietly, looking at my mother. "The doctor strictly warned me not to eat raw or cold seafood for at least six months."

There wasn't a single dish on the table that I could safely eat.

My mother's hand paused, a brief flicker of guilt crossing her face, but it was quickly replaced by irritation.

"We are celebrating a wonderful trip, and you have to ruin the mood with your illnesses? It was a minor surgery! A little seafood isn't going to kill you. Stop being so delicate!"

She waved over a maid. "Go heat up some of yesterday's leftover porridge for her."

As I stared at the bowl of sour, day-old porridge, a wave of nausea hit my stomach.

After dinner, Monica directed the staff to line up five massive suitcases in the center of the living room, and the family gathered around to pack them with snacks and designer winter wear. The spacious room was so crowded with their belongings that there wasn't even a path for me to walk through.

I knew then, with absolute certainty, that I had no place in this house.

"Oh, my head... I feel so dizzy..." Monica murmured, pressing her hand to her forehead as she collapsed onto the plush sofa.

My mother let out a sharp cry of alarm, and the entire room erupted into chaos. Wyatt rushed to hold her up, while my father barked orders at the butler to fetch the medical kit. They acted as though she were facing a terminal crisis, when in reality, she was simply experiencing a mild sugar drop from staying up late to look at travel blogs.

I stood at the corner of the hallway, shivering as the cold wind drifted in from a half-open window.

A sharp, familiar pain shot through my right knee. It was the chronic joint pain I had developed when I was twelve, after falling into an icy creek while gathering wild herbs in the high desert. Whenever the weather turned damp or I grew exhausted, the pain in my bones became almost unbearable.

I limped back to my room and pulled open my nightstand drawer, searching for the herbal patches I had bought to manage the pain.

But the drawer was completely empty.

All ten boxes of the specialized patches I had purchased with my own meager savings were gone.

Sweating from the pain, I limped back to the living room. My eyes swept over Monica's open suitcase, and there, tucked into a side pocket, were the familiar brown paper boxes.

I walked over, reaching out to reclaim my medication.

Before my fingers could touch the box, my mother delivered a sharp, stinging slap to my hand. My skin immediately began to swell and redden.

"What do you think you're doing? Those are Monica's heating patches for the cold weather!" she snapped, shielding the suitcase with her body.

I gasped from the pain, forcing myself to explain. "Mom, those aren't regular heat patches. They contain raw aconite and thunder god vine root. It's a high-potency prescription herbal patch specifically formulated for severe joint pain!"

"If someone without the condition uses them, they can cause severe skin ulcerations and even systemic toxicity!"

"Stop making up these ridiculous stories!" Wyatt sneered, standing up to block me. "Evelyn, you really will resort to any lie just to steal from Monica, won't you? Monica is going to a freezing place like Iceland. If she gets cold because of you, can you even afford to make it up to her?"

Monica leaned back against the cushions, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Evelyn, if you're really going to fight me over a few heating patches, I'll give them back. I know I'm just an outsider in this family anyway..."

"Monica, don't say that! These belong to you!" my father declared, turning a furious glare on me. "Get back to your room! Get out of our sight!"

Looking at their stubborn, united front, I decided to stop fighting. Even if I told them the absolute truth, they would only see it as a malicious lie.

I pulled my throbbing hand back and let the pain in my knee burn. I turned and limped back to my room without another word.

If Monica chose to burn her skin off with those patches, she would have no one to blame but herself.

Two days later, we had to go to the agency to verify our fingerprints.

When I walked out of the house with my documents, they were already sitting in the family SUV. I walked up to the window and looked inside.

The butler sat in the passenger seat, and the four of them occupied the remaining rows. The spacious cargo area and the footwells were completely packed with Monica's carry-on bags and makeup cases. There wasn't a single inch of space left for me.

"There's no room in the car," my father said, rolling down the window with a frown. "And your cheap canvas bag will scratch Monica's leather suitcases."

"Then how am I supposed to get there?" I asked, my voice flat.

"Figure it out yourself! Find a rental bike outside the estate, or walk to the subway station!" my father snapped impatiently. "We are on a tight schedule. Do not be late!"

The window rolled up, and the driver hit the gas. The tires rolled through a muddy puddle, splashing dirty water all over my face and my cheap jacket.

I stood in the driveway, wiping the mud from my eyes as I watched the vehicle disappear. The very last spark of hope I had held for this family died in that puddle.

The damp wind bit through my clothes. I didn't search for a bike, and I didn't walk to the subway. I turned around and walked back into the empty house.

My body was shaking from the cold, and my throat felt dry. I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of cold water, and swallowed two cold tablets. The bitter taste coated my tongue, but it was nothing compared to the bitterness in my heart.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a notification from the family group chat.

Five minutes ago, they had arrived at the airport lounge. The chat was flooded with photos: Monica eating pastries, Wyatt adjusting his camera lenses, and my mother discussing the premium travel insurance she had purchased for Iceland.

Not a single person asked if I had found a ride, or if I was caught in the rain.

I turned off the screen and went back to my dark room. Since I wasn't going with them, it was time for me to leave.

I knelt on the floor and pried away a loose piece of the baseboard under my bed. Hidden inside was a small iron box.

This was the only piece of my past I had brought from the desert: a collection of hand-written folk songs my late adoptive mother, Martha, had penned for me, and her old, worn pocket watch. It was the only thing that had kept me going through three years of isolation in this house.

But when my hand reached into the dark space, my fingers met nothing but cold, empty air.

The box was gone.

A sharp ringing sound filled my ears, and my heart seemed to stop.

I bolted out of the room, running up the stairs toward the source of some faint noise on the second floor.

When I reached the top of the stairs, my legs went rigid.

Wyatt was standing in the hallway, throwing a paper airplane made from a sheet of yellowed paper. I could see Martha's neat, looping handwriting covering the wings.

Monica stood in front of the full-length mirror, a heavy metal chain around her neck. Suspended from the bottom of the chain was my adoptive mother's old pocket watch.

The glass cover of the watch had been crudely pried off, the delicate hands and face ripped out to expose the bare, gold gears. She was displaying it to Wyatt as if it were a trendy "steampunk" accessory.

"You have to admit, Wyatt, this old junk actually looks incredibly chic once you modify it," Monica said with a smirk.

"What are you doing?!" I screamed, my eyes turning red with fury as I lunged toward them.

My mother walked out of the adjacent room holding a pair of scissors, her brow furrowing in irritation. "What is all this screaming about? Your room was full of dusty, moldy garbage that made the entire first floor smell like a gutter. I had the maids clean it out. Is there a problem with that?"

"That was my mother's legacy! You stole it! You destroyed it!"

My body was shaking so violently I could barely speak. I reached for the chain around Monica's neck. "Give it back to me!"

"Evelyn, are you insane?!" Wyatt yelled, stepping in front of Monica and shoving me back with all his force. "It's just a piece of old brass! It's an honor that Monica even wants to wear your trash! Why are you acting like a hysterical wild animal over a piece of garbage?"

Monica shrank back, putting on a display of terror as tears spilled from her eyes. "Evelyn, I'm so sorry. I didn't know this was so important to you. I'll give it back, please don't hurt me..."

She fumbled with the clasp, her hands shaking, and the delicate watch slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor.

As she tried to step back, her heavy designer boot landed directly on the exposed gears.

A sharp crunch echoed through the hallway. The delicate inner workings of the watch were crushed into unrecognizable fragments.

My breath caught in my throat. A dull, heavy pain bloomed in my chest, so intense that no tears could fall.

"You ungrateful brat!" my father roared as he strode up the stairs, having heard the noise. He pointed a finger at my face, his expression contorted with rage. "You would threaten your own sister over a piece of country trash? You have completely humiliated this family!"

"Guards! Lock her in the basement storage room! No one is to let her out until she learns how to behave!"

Two burly security guards stepped forward, grabbing me by the arms and dragging me down the stairs.

I didn't fight them.

My hand was clenched tightly around the sharp shards of glass I had gathered from the floor, the blood dripping from my palm and staining the white hallway carpet.

The heavy metal door slammed shut, plunging the basement into absolute darkness.

From upstairs, the faint sound of their laughter drifted down as they discussed what outfits they would wear to see the northern lights. I leaned against the cold stone wall and slid slowly to the floor.

Over the next three days, the family acted as if I didn't exist.

Only the maid came once a day, sliding a piece of stale bread and a half-filled bottle of water under the door, as if she were feeding an animal. They were using isolation and physical confinement to force me to beg for their forgiveness.

But they had entirely miscalculated.

On the third evening, the sound of the front door closing echoed from upstairs.

Tonight was the eve of their departure for Iceland. The family had booked the most exclusive restaurant in Boston to host a grand send-off celebration for Monica.

The estate was finally completely silent.

I pulled a bobby pin from my hair. Using the skills I had developed during my years in the dry country, and guided by the faint light of my phone's low-battery screen, I manipulated the mechanism of the lock.

With a soft click, the heavy padlock fell open.

When I walked back up to the first floor, I didn't call the police, and I didn't wait to confront them.

I walked into the living room, gathered every single piece of clothing and jewelry the Presleys had bought for me, along with our family portraits, and threw them into the fireplace, watching them burn to ash.

I pulled the SIM card from my phone, snapped it in half, and tossed the device into the deep waters of the garden pond.

Finally, I picked up the worn canvas bag I had brought with me from the desert three years ago.

Fourteen hours later, I was sitting near the window of a long-distance train, watching the green hills fade into the endless, sun-baked plains of the Southwest.

The wheels clattered against the iron rails, a rhythmic, beautiful sound that carried me away from my prison.

The Presley family could keep their biological daughter's title.

I was going home.