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Chapter 2 - CHAPTER TWO

The memorial was held in a rented hall on the outskirts of Maplebridge. It was the kind of place used for christenings, retirements, and awkward family reunions—where the folding chairs creaked and the coffee was always too bitter.

Elena didn't want to be there.

The smell of floor polish and plastic flowers made her skin itch. She stood at the back of the room, beside her mother, arms crossed and eyes fixed on the framed photograph of her father on a small stand near the front.

Thomas Hart, age 51. Loving father. Quiet man. Taken too soon.

But to some people in the room, he'd been more than that. Or perhaps less.

Elena watched them trickle in—his old friends, his extended family, and the children he'd fathered before he met Margaret. The brothers.

There were four of them: Noah, Wesley, Julian, and Liam.

Liam was the only one Elena had ever truly spoken to. At the funeral, he'd stood beside her for a full twenty minutes while the others pretended she didn't exist.

Now, he was the last to arrive—dressed in a dark coat, taller than she remembered, his jaw shadowed with stubble. His eyes swept the room and landed on her almost immediately.

He gave a brief nod.

She didn't return it.

There was no official ceremony. Just food, murmured conversations, and occasional snatches of nostalgia. Someone played soft jazz from a Bluetooth speaker in the corner, and one of Thomas's cousins stood and told a few stories.

Elena barely listened.

She could feel the looks. Not from strangers—but from people who had her blood in their veins and still regarded her like a trespasser.

A woman named Teresa, who introduced herself as her father's half-sister, came up during the refreshments.

"You've grown up nicely," she said. "You look just like your father when he was younger."

Elena forced a polite smile. "Thank you."

Teresa's eyes flicked over to Margaret. "And how's the clinic doing these days, Margaret?"

Her mother, calm as ever, responded gently. "Busy. Always short-staffed."

"Ah." Teresa pursed her lips. "Well, I suppose we all do our best. It's never easy, raising a child alone."

Elena's stomach turned. Her mother wasn't alone. She had been married. She had done everything right.

But she said nothing.

Liam approached her an hour later, while her mother stepped out to take a phone call.

"Hey," he said, standing awkwardly beside her. "I wasn't sure if you'd come."

"I didn't want to."

"Yeah," he said. "I figured."

He stared at the photo of their father. "I keep thinking about that last week in hospice. He asked about you a lot."

Elena turned to him. "Why didn't he ask me himself?"

Liam's expression tightened. "He was protecting you, I think. He didn't want you to see him like that at the very end. He couldn't even speak some days."

She blinked, taken aback by the sharp pain that hit her. "He shouldn't have decided that for me."

"I know," Liam said quietly. "But… he wasn't good at goodbyes."

There was a silence between them, not hostile—just heavy.

Then Liam reached into his coat pocket and handed her a small envelope. "This is for you. It's not much. Just something I've been saving."

She opened it slightly—cash, folded neatly. "Why?"

"Because I was your brother and I wasn't there when I should've been."

By the time Margaret returned to the hall, several of Thomas Hart's siblings and ex-partners had clustered into a circle near the food table. Their voices were low but intense, like the buzz of a beehive just before a sting.

Elena sensed something was off.

Her mother hesitated at the edge of the room, eyes narrowing as she took in the expressions around the circle—tight jaws, raised eyebrows, folded arms.

Then Uncle Peter stepped forward, patting his belly like he was defusing a bomb. "We were just discussing the donations from the funeral. There's still a bit left. We figured it's only fair we talk about how to use it."

Margaret folded her arms. "The donations were made in Thomas's memory. People gave them to support Elena and the household."

"Of course," Teresa said smoothly, stepping beside Peter. "But Thomas had other children too. And his name carries weight. His legacy affects all of them."

Elena's fists clenched.

"He didn't raise the others," Margaret said quietly. "He raised her."

Peter chuckled nervously. "No need to get defensive. We just want to be transparent. A few of the boys are struggling. Julian lost his job. Wesley's got a baby on the way. The money could help all of them get back on their feet."

"It's not a family fund," Elena said. Her voice was low but sharp.

Everyone turned to her.

Elena stepped forward, her hands shaking but her spine straight. "That money came from people who knew him as my father. Who knew us as a family. My mother gave up everything to take care of him in his final months. We're not sharing it like some inheritance. It wasn't theirs to begin with."

"Now, hang on," Wesley said from across the room. "We're his kids too."

"Were you there when he couldn't walk?" Elena shot back. "Were you there when the house fell behind on rent and my mom skipped meals to keep the lights on? Were you even there at the funeral, or did you just show up to pose for the pictures?"

A tense silence spread like oil in water.

Liam stepped in. "She's right."

Everyone turned to him.

"I wasn't there either. Not the way I should have been. But that money? It belongs to them."

Peter's face tightened. "We'll need to review the contributions. Some of them were made in the Hart family's name—"

"Then take it," Elena said coldly. "Take it all. Every coin. We don't need your money or your charity. But after today, don't ever reach out to us again. We are done."

Margaret touched her daughter's arm gently, but Elena didn't look away.

Peter cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "No one's trying to fight. It's just... hard to sort out these things."

"Not really," Margaret said. "Not if you still have a conscience."

She turned and led Elena out.

They walked in silence to the car.

Elena opened the door and sat down, hands trembling in her lap.

Her mother slid into the driver's seat and stared ahead for a long time before turning to her.

"I didn't expect you to say all that," she said.

"I didn't expect them to try and take what wasn't theirs."

Margaret exhaled slowly, then reached over and squeezed her daughter's hand. "Thank you."

Elena looked out the window. "I just wanted to go home."

That night, Elena opened her laptop and deleted every contact she had related to her father's extended family. She blocked them all—on email, on social media, and even their phone numbers. If they wanted to fight over scraps, they could do it without her.

She didn't need closure.

She needed peace.

And sometimes, the only way to get it was to close the door—lock it—and never look back.

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