Chapter 3
I pushed open the door. Same smell hit me like a wall.
Disinfectant. Old person funk. A hint of mildew.
Five years of that stench had seeped into the walls. No amount of air freshener could kill it.
I collapsed onto the couch and pulled out the photograph.
Seventeen-year-old me, grinning like an idiot.
Back then, I had no clue that three days later, my life would implode.
Back then, I thought getting into Stanford was the beginning of something.
I flipped the photo over. Scribbled on the back in Dad’s chicken-scratch handwriting:
“Emma, crush those exams.”
His handwriting was shit-barely literate, honestly.
But I’d carried those words for twenty years.
Ironic, right?
The man who stole my future wrote “crush those exams” on the back of a photo.
Then something clicked in my head.
How did this photo even happen?
A month before the SATs, Dad came home-rare as hell.
He’d been working construction out of state. Barely saw him twice a year.
That day, he showed up with a camera.
Some cheap point-and-shoot. Someone gave it to him. Probably used.
“Emma, c’mere. Let me get a shot of you.”
I stood under the pomegranate tree. He aimed the camera at me.
“Smile.”
I did.


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