My daughter was only hours old when they tore her from my arms. They called it an accident. I knew it was murder.
Three months later, I was dead too.
Now I'm back at the moment it all started—the night Darius chose my sister over me in front of everyone.
I didn't cry. I didn't beg.
I chose the one they all forgot. The one they called a cripple, a failure, the son they threw away. The moment I pointed at him, the whole room laughed.
Then he stood up from his wheelchair. When I saw the needle marks on his arms, I realized the truth.
His father didn't just abandon him. He was a prisoner of his own family.
And what they stole from him... they were trying to steal from me too.
