Chapter 1: Stepmother in the Mansion

When he grows up, he’s cold and distant, reckless and violent.

He sends his own father to a psychiatric hospital, and sends me, his stepmother, to an early grave.

He tears apart the one person who ever tried to save him—breaking her heart, breaking her body, until there’s nothing left.

Only after the girl dies does he finally realize what he’s lost—clutching her remains, he throws himself into Lake Michigan.

The good news is, the Buddhist kid is still young, only seven years old.

He hasn’t yet become withdrawn or obsessed with stringing beads.

The bad news is, I’ve been handed the script of the evil stepmother, and his father really is sick.

I pinch the kid’s chubby cheeks and say seriously:

“Finished with your beads? Then go play outside. You done with those beads yet? I’m waiting to hand them off, so chop-chop.”

“In the future, we’ll be the Buddhist kid of Chicago high society. We can’t just smile at anyone. Now, I’ll tell a joke, but you have to keep a straight face.”

I watch him with a little smile, the kind you toss a kid when you’re trying to play it cool, though my own nerves are jangling. Out the window, you can see Lake Shore Drive glinting, cabs zipping by, sirens somewhere in the city’s distance. “It’s tough out there, Cal. Gotta learn to keep a poker face.” I gently ruffle his hair, trying to keep the moment light.