Chapter 3: The Golden Boy

When I was eight, my mother gave birth to a son.

The house buzzed for weeks—flowers arriving, nannies hired, champagne uncorked. The baby was chubby and pink, the spitting image of Walter.

She was overjoyed. Apart from the official wife’s legitimate son, Walter had only one other son—my mother’s child, soon called the Golden Boy.

She paraded him through the house, showing him off to every guest, cousin, and senator who visited.

At three, my brother was named the Golden Boy. It was a rare honor.

They threw a party with balloons and a cake shaped like a crown. He wore a tiny suit, and the household clapped like he’d won the lottery.

From then on, my mother seemed to float on air.

She moved lightly, humming Christmas carols in July, her eyes shining brighter than the silver in her hair.

Every day, she smiled like it was Christmas morning, holding my brother, radiant with joy.

She danced with him in the parlor, spinning him to the tune of her own victory.

I began to dislike her.

I hated how she ignored me, laughed at jokes I didn’t understand, and clung to him as if he were her only hope.

No one in the mansion dared to offend her, so they vented their frustrations on me.

The cooks glared if I entered the kitchen. The gardeners let the roses outside my window wilt. I became the invisible punching bag of the household.

One day, Mrs. Lewis suffered slights in my mother’s quarters. The next, my stepsister pushed me into the backyard pool.

The water was ice-cold, the taste of chlorine burning my nose as I sank. I flailed, my silent screams muffled by panic and water.

Mute, I couldn’t call for help.

I thrashed, reaching for anything—air, hope, a hand.

When I thought I’d drown, a young man in white saved me.

He smelled of fresh laundry and peppermint gum, hauling me out, coughing and gasping, hands gentle and sure.

I recognized him—he was the governor’s son’s study buddy.

He was always polite, always carrying books. A gentle, upright person who still believed in right and wrong, even when everyone else had forgotten.

He and my stepbrother escorted me back to my mother.

I trailed between them, soaking wet, shivering from more than cold.

Mom only glanced at me.

Her eyes flicked over me, then away, as if I were just another mess for the maid.

It was the same look she gave Dad as he died—indifference, cold and clinical. I knew then nothing I did would win her back.

Since the Golden Boy’s birth, she barely cared for me, leaving me to fend for myself.

I ate alone, slept alone, drifted like a ghost through halls that once felt like home.

I think she regrets letting me live.

Now, with wealth, favor, and Walter’s affection, her only blemish was me—a leftover from the old regime.

I was the shadow she couldn’t erase, the secret everyone pretended not to see.

This mess was eventually reported by my stepbrother to Walter, who stood up for me and harshly punished Mrs. Lewis and her daughter.

For the first time in years, someone took my side. Walter’s decision sent shockwaves through the staff, reminding everyone who really called the shots.

For a while, folks said Walter cherished me, Walter’s ward, as much as his own.

Neighbors brought casseroles, gossiped over fences, speculated about the strange new household.

And my mother was even happier.

She floated through the halls, triumphant, convinced her place was secure.

She believed Walter loved her, deeply and truly.

She clung to every gesture, every word, weaving it into a tapestry of imagined devotion.

She used me as proof of Walter’s love, parading my continued presence as evidence of her victory.