Pick: Rich Stepdad or Poor Grandpa?

I knew Grandpa was all gruffness and soft heart. The next day, when I sneezed from a chill, there was an extra blanket on my bed that night.

Grandpa's bookshelf was crammed with books—mostly history—so worn some lacked covers entirely. He insisted I finish them all, stern as a schoolmaster.

History was dull and dense, but at night, he would pull me outside to the yard, point to the stars, and tell me those magnificent tales of heroes. Gradually, I grew interested.

Occasionally, he taught me how to read soil layers. When I misidentified one, he'd scold me for being stupid—but then furtively note the mistake in his little book.

Life was poor, but Grandpa treated me kindly, even if he never said it out loud. Worried I'd be at a loss without a mother, he often asked some village ladies to pop by and look after me.

Winter break flew by, and soon school reopened. Late at night, I'd still see him scrubbing the mud from that rickety tricycle. He dropped me at the school gate, and before I made it inside, I saw Mother and Phoebe.

Phoebe stepped from a luxury car, swinging a designer bag, dragging Mother behind her like an arrogant swan. She came over with exaggerated warmth, reached for my hand—and then froze, covering her nose. "Rachel, why do you smell like cow dung?"

I held my own nose; her perfume nearly choked me.

Feigning shock, she sneered, "Rachel, are you actually taking a farm cart to school now? I thought Grandpa was an antique collector! Do you know my rides are all worth millions!"

Then she breezed off to greet the other affluent youngsters who'd arrived in their chauffeurs. Turning back at me, she said, "Rachel, we're not even from the same world anymore. Daddy takes me to parties every day—unlike you, who's always filthy in the dirt."

She stamped on my shoe. "Gross. My shoes are hundreds of times better than yours—stepping on yours is a favor."

I didn't flare up. I crouched, wiped the dirt from my shoe with my sleeve, and looked at her calmly. "Are you taking out everything you suffered at the Morris house on me?"

Phoebe laughed, furious. "Suffered? With my fine clothes and good food, how could I be suffering? Mind your own affairs!"

Still, I saw the flicker of panic beneath her bravado. I'd touched a sore spot she was trying to hide.

After school, I did my homework in my room.

A knock came at the door. When I opened it, no one was there—just a shoebox sitting on the floor.

The neighbor, Lydia Mastin's grandson went to my school. I'd overheard him begging his grandparents for new gym shoes. I'd never said a word about it to anyone, and yet, here they were.

A sudden warmth bloomed in my chest, so sharp it made my eyes sting. In the Morris house, every gesture was a transaction. Every kindness came with strings attached. No one there actually saw me.

Teenage stomachs are fragile, but Roger Morris didn't care. After school, he'd push glass after glass of alcohol into my hands, forcing me to drink. He'd clap me on the back, praising me for every cup I finished.

On weekends, it was "ballroom dance" lessons. Their idea of ballroom was just training me to position myself in a waltz so that men could look—and touch—wherever they wanted.

I asked my mother once if this was what self-respect looked like. She just rested a hand on her stomach and said coldly, "We're securing your future. Can't you be more sensible?"

They had me pour drinks for clients, playing the coy, innocent girl while men indulged their darkest appetites. That's how Roger closed his deals.

Even my engagement was a contract they brokered. Quentin was dazzling in public, but in private, he was worse than the rest.

I was a trophy, a pawn on their banquet table, shoved around to please their guests. I lost count of the nights I woke up in pain. When my stomach started bleeding, they just gave me a shot and dragged me back to the party to be their perfect socialite.

When summer finally came, Mother arranged for me to stay with Grandpa—but only because they were inspecting a piece of land to impress some big-shot client. They wanted to show me off as a contrast to Phoebe.

They'd pulled the same stunt in my last life, filling Phoebe with false hope. I didn't want to go, but I was afraid of what they might do to Grandpa if I refused.

This client, though, was different. Last time, Roger had misjudged him, ruined the deal with his petty suspicions, and blamed me. His punishment then was to starve me "to help me keep my figure."

We were supposed to meet at a banquet hall, but the client took us straight to the site. Phoebe was standing there in an overly short skirt, her legs covered in angry red bug bites, forcing a smile. The man turned to Roger. "You want to buy this land?" he asked.

Roger nodded eagerly. The man pressed him. "Do you know what this was? Can you tell me what this soil means?"

The three of them—Roger, Mother, and Phoebe—just stammered. Then I remembered one of Grandpa's lessons.

"This was a burial ground," I said quietly. "The soil looks long-settled, with an ancient composition. You can tell by the color of the strata."

The client's eyes lit up. "Who taught you that? I'm impressed. I didn't expect your daughter to know about soil layers, Mr. Morris."

I'd just pulled it from one of Grandpa's lessons, but the praise was real.

Roger, still completely missing the point, shoved Phoebe forward. "Oh, Rachel's just been out in the country. She doesn't know anything. Let Phoebe talk with you."

The client took one look at Phoebe's outfit and his face hardened. "The land is not for sale," he snapped. "And I am not the kind of man you seem to think I am." The meeting was over.

On the way home, Roger's face was a thundercloud. Phoebe immediately leaned into her victim act. "If it wasn't for that scheming little fox, Rachel, I would have closed that deal! She sabotaged me on purpose!"

Mother nodded in agreement. "We never should have brought her. She ruins everything."

Roger needed a target for his rage. He backhanded me. Then he pulled off his belt. The leather cut into my skin, each blow a searing brand.

I tried to fight back, but that just made him hit harder. A terrifying thought flashed through my mind, 'Is this how I die?'

As I started to black out from the pain, I saw a tall, rigid figure in the doorway.

Was I hallucinating? It looked just like that stubborn old man—my grandfather.