Chapter 8 - Mia's Triumph
While the storm raged around Elmhurst Lane, the atmosphere in our home was lighter than it had been in years. The toxic burden of trying to earn the approval of people who were determined to withhold it had evaporated.
On Tuesday afternoon, a courier delivered a thick, official packet from Stanford University.
Mia brought it into the living room, holding it between both hands as if it were made of spun glass. Marcus and I stood beside her as she used a letter opener to slice through the heavy envelope.
Inside was the official notification of the President’s Honor Scholarship—a full-ride academic grant covering tuition, room, and board for all four years.
Mia read the letter twice, her lower lip trembling. Then she let out a choked laugh and threw her arms around Marcus and me.
"I did it," she whispered into my shoulder. "Mom, I did it."
"You did it, sweetheart," I said, holding her tightly, tears finally spilling down my cheeks. "Every single bit of it was you. Your hard work. Your brilliance."
Marcus pulled back, his eyes shining with pride. "No one handed this to you, Mia. No golden pedestal, no fake parties. You earned every inch of this."
That evening, we celebrated at our favorite local Italian restaurant. Just the three of us. No forced polite conversation, no walking on eggshells, no waiting for someone else's golden child to be praised.
Later that night, as Mia was asleep in her room, Marcus poured two glasses of wine and joined me on the back patio.
"Sarah called while you were upstairs," Marcus said softly. "The formal partition petition was officially filed with the county clerk this afternoon. The clock is officially running."
I took a sip of wine, looking up at the stars. "Good."
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"Andrew posted something on Facebook," Marcus added, hesitating. "A giant rant about family loyalty, calling you selfish and bitter. A few distant cousins commented, taking his side."
I smiled faintly. "Let them talk, Marcus. Andrew can have the Facebook likes. We’re taking our third."
