Chapter One
The Past
Only one month until graduation, and Charlotte couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Florida.
Mostly, to get away from her hateful witch of a mother.
They fought constantly, and Charlotte knew if she didn’t get away, she would end up just like her: bitter, hateful, and angry.
Her mother often reminded Charlotte how some bad decisions ruined her life.
She told Charlotte almost daily if she hadn’t been knocked up, her life would have been so much better.
A real self-esteem builder, Charlotte always thought.
She didn’t care; let her say what she wanted.
Charlotte had saved every dime she earned at Photo Mart, where she developed film and transferred VHS tapes to CDs.
She was applying for a national scholarship offered by the Savannah College of Art and Design.
She doubted she would be accepted, but Mr. Baker, who owned the Photo Mart, told her it wouldn’t hurt to apply.
He’d seen most of her photos, since he allowed her to develop them at the store when she finished her work. He said she was a natural.
Charlotte thought of him as the father she never had.
Her own dad had died when she was only three, so she had no real memories of him.
There were no photos at home, no picture albums to search through.
Each time she asked her mother, Elsbeth—or Elsie, as her mother preferred—about his death, she clammed up and told Charlotte to shut the hell up.
He’s dead. If you want to dig up the past, go to Memorial Gardens with a shovel.
You’ll find Charles Gray dead as a doornail.
“Crude” didn’t begin to describe her mother.
Having no family, other than her mother, Charlotte was determined to make her life matter, even if no one cared enough to acknowledge her. Family, to her, was very overrated.
Charlotte tucked the envelope into her backpack with the care that belied her indifferent posture.
“Make sure you double-check the address,” Mr. Baker called from behind a stack of photo orders, his voice carrying the subtle warmth he reserved for his mentorship moments. Charlotte nodded without looking up.
“Thanks, Mr. Baker,” she murmured, adjusting the strap of her book bag as if it could somehow support the weight of her future. “I will.” She checked the address one more time, and mentally crossed her fingers for luck. “See you tomorrow.” She said this every day before she left.
“Sure thing, kiddo,” Mr. Baker replied as always.
Stepping out into the muggy Florida air, she felt the immediate urge to escape, to sprint until the heaviness of her life evaporated in the rearview mirror of a Greyhound bus bound for anywhere but here.
But she restrained herself, knowing that her salvation lay not in physical distance, but in the slim chance of an acceptance letter from SCAD.
She forced herself to be realistic. Chances were slim she’d get the scholarship.
Still, it’d given her something to dream about at night.
Charlotte went inside the post office across the street from the Photo Mart.
She wanted to personally hand the envelope to Peggy Snider, the postmistress who worked at the counter passing out stamps and registering letters for the folks in town.
Charlotte knew she did more than that, but Peggy was serious when it came to the US mail, so she knew the application would be handled properly, and arrive at its destination in Georgia.
“Hey there, Char,” Peggy said when she placed her envelope on the counter. “You mailing something for your mother?” she asked.
“No, it’s mine.” She didn’t want to tell her what was inside the envelope.
Peggy was as sweet as sugar but gossiped about everyone.
Plus, Charlotte hated to be referred to as Char.
It reminded her of Timmy Towson, with whom she’d gone to middle school.
He always called her Char but added the harlot because he was an asshole.
He’d moved away in their freshman year of high school. Good riddance.
Peggy looked at the envelope, her penciled-on eyebrows lifting as she saw the address. “SCAD? Well, now that’s something, Char. I can’t imagine why you’d be posting a letter to them, but I’ll make sure it goes out in today’s mail.”
“Thanks,” Charlotte said, knowing the minute she left the post office, Peggy would call her mother to find out what was in the letter.
She smiled to herself, because their phone had been turned off for a week.
Her mother “forgot” to pay the telephone bill.
Again. Charlotte knew her mother wanted her to pay the bill, but no way in hell would she give up her hard-earned cash.
Her mom had plenty of money now. For years, her mother would go to Circle K every Saturday to purchase a Powerball ticket.
Then one day—surprise, surprise—her mom won two million dollars.
The local news had covered her big win, and it’d been in the newspaper.
For weeks, her mother had acted like she was the crème de la crème.
Her fame faded quickly, and she returned to her normal self—a hateful, nasty bitch.
Just the thought of her mother, Elsie, was like a dark cloud threatening to engulf the sliver of sunshine in Charlotte’s chest. Their last fight replayed in her mind, Elsie’s venomous words slicing through the already fragile fabric of their relationship.
Her mother’s words pounded in her head like the beat of a drum: “You are as worthless as your father.” Charlotte had learned to armor herself against the bitterness, but the scars were etched deep, invisible to all but her.
Walking past the rows of suburban sameness, as usual she avoided the path that would take her home too quickly.
Instead, she found herself outside Memorial Gardens, the name etched in stone at the entrance, a grim reminder of the father she barely knew.
Charles Gray. A man reduced to nothing more than a name on a tombstone and a topic forbidden by her mother’s wrath, unless she wanted to blame him for her lot in life, as she did most times when his name came up.
“Dead as a doornail,” she muttered, repeating Elsie’s crass words with a scoff. There was no solace here among the manicured graves, no answers to the questions that had haunted her since childhood. What really happened to my father?
She turned away from the cemetery, her resolve hardening with every step. Charlotte would not end up like Elsie, trapped in a cycle of regret and resentment. She clung to the dream of a life filled with purpose, art, and maybe even joy—a life of her own making.
“Family is overrated,” she whispered to herself, the statement becoming her mantra.
Her choices would be her own without input from her mother.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of defiance, Charlotte made a silent vow to carve out a future starkly different from her past.