My stepmother thought I was br0ke, so she treated me like her personal baggage handler and laughed as she sent me to Economy. Then the aircraft stopped taxiing, and the captain came looking for me.

The plane had already started taxiing when the engines suddenly dropped, the brakes hissed, and the captain stepped out of the cockpit asking for me by name.

That was the exact moment my stepmother’s confident smile disappeared in first class.

Two hours earlier, Patricia had shoved her crocodile handbag into my arms at Terminal 4 as if I worked for the airport.

“Careful with that, Nora,” she said, diamonds flashing under the terminal lights. “That bag costs more than your apartment.”

My father looked away.

That hurt more than anything Patricia said.

Not her tone.

Not my stepbrother Mason’s smug laugh.

Not even the way his fiancée recorded me struggling with three designer suitcases and two garment bags.

What hurt was watching my father pretend he hadn’t heard any of it.