Chapter 2 - The Backyard Horror and the Stolen Jewelry**
I arrived in town late in the afternoon, choosing to walk from the bus stop to savor the familiar neighborhood streets. But as I approached our property, something felt profoundly wrong. The exterior of the house looked magnificent—fresh paint, polished new windows, paved driveway, and my brother Marcus’s brand-new luxury SUV parked proudly in the carport. But as I drew closer, I heard shouting echoing from the backyard.
“That bald woman shouldn't let herself be seen when we have company!” Marcus bellowed, his voice dripping with venom and cruel entitlement.
Confused and uneasy, I bypassed the front entrance, slipped down the side alleyway, and peered through the wooden slats of the backyard fence. The scene that met my eyes froze the blood in my veins.
Phedra, my beautiful, vibrant Phedra, was on her hands and knees in the dirt of the backyard. Her head was completely shaved, leaving exposed skin stark against her hollow, skeletal cheekbones. She was picking up shards of a broken ceramic plate with her bare, trembling fingers. A rusted bucket of murky water sat beside her. As I watched in silent horror, she coughed a weak, rattling cough and whispered to herself that she hadn't been given any food since yesterday afternoon.
Before my brain could process the magnitude of the cruelty, my mother, Selina, stepped out onto the back patio. And there, resting against her chest, gleaming mockingly in the afternoon sun, was the gold hummingbird necklace I had custom-ordered for Phedra on our fifth wedding anniversary.
“Hurry up and finish cleaning that up, you ungrateful wretch,” Selina snapped, crossing her arms. “You brought this sickness upon yourself, and you're lucky we even let you sleep in the shed.”
Shed. Phedra was sleeping in a rotting garden storage shed.
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When I pushed through the gate and confronted them, the mask of pleasant suburban life shattered instantly. Phedra looked up, her eyes wide with shock and terror, whispering that she had been diagnosed with cancer eleven months ago. Eleven months of agonizing illness, and my family had provided her with a grand total of two medical visits—just enough to keep her alive to serve as an unpaid slave. Meanwhile, every dollar I had bled for in Canada had been funneled into granite countertops, leather furniture, high-end electronics, and Marcus's shiny new auto-repair shop.
When I demanded answers from Selina, she didn't flinch or show an ounce of remorse. She looked at me with cold, unyielding arrogance and spat, “My son sends the money to my account. That means I decide how it gets used. And that lazy parasite didn't deserve a single penny of it.”
