My dad, Mark, remarried in under a year, and his new wife, Brenda, made sure to remind me every single day that I was the living, breathing proof of his biggest mistake. My room was in the damp, cold basement. My plate was served last, often with scraps. My birthdays were ignored.

Only my grandma cared. Only she would sneak me treats, slip me twenty-dollar bills, and whisper, “One day, they’ll regret this.” And right then, holding that envelope in the dim light of her living room, I finally understood why.