a/n. BOO.

Aunt Lauren drove me to the airport when I was twelve years old. I remember we were fighting and I hated her guts. When she wouldn't talk to me anymore, I looked sourly out the passenger side window and watched the planes and cars mill about.

A flight attendant had to sit with me on the plane because I wasn't sixteen. She was nice and asked me lots of questions.

"Are you visiting someone?" she asked. "In Vermont?"

When I said "I have to live with my Grandpa now because my mom had a baby," her toothy smile faltered.

"Oh, now I'm sure it might seem that way, but you'll just be visiting your grandpa for fun over the summer. Won't it be nice to be away from the baby, too? Babies are always crying. I remember when my mom had my brother I couldn't sleep at night. It was awful!"

I didn't say anything. I knew that, by the end of the summer, I would be right and the patronizing flight attendant would be wrong.

Visiting for the summer–that's what Aunt Lauren had said too, but summer turned into fall and twelve turned into seventeen. I kept thinking I'd get a christmas present or even a phone call, but I never did. I was supposed to forget.

Grandpa Harvey never forgave Aunt Lauren or mom. He tried to hunt them down, hiring a lot of investigators and privates, but eventually had to give up and give in—they were gone and he was stuck with me. He did a really good job, Grandpa did, and I loved him to pieces. So much did he shine in my eyes, I asked him if he was Batman when I was four.

Never once did Grandpa let me down. He was real family—a real jewel. He said frequently that he did me right, the way he raisied me, as I did well in school and seemed to be on the fast track towards greater education.

I used to cry on my birthdays, Christmas, St. Valentines, Halloween, the baby's birthday, Easter, and whenever it just plain bothered me I'd been sent off and seemingly forgotten, but eventually the only card I expected was from Grandpa. I used to tell anyone I'd meet about how I'd been abandoned by my mother and family. I'd revel in telling strangers I had no one but Harvey. Kids at school thought I was either weird or were disturbed by my story. Was it possible their parents would ship them off to tenbucktoo if they threw just one more hissy fit? Kids were often cruel.

Harvey let me indulge myself.

"Knock yourself out," he said when I asked him if the way I told people bothered him. "You're not the one who abandoned your kid."

I did knock myself out. Completely. I stopped talking about it Sophmore year, and because I stopped, I got friends and started dating. It was like a fairy had tapped me with her magic wand.

Bitter is the word. My mom and aunt were scam artists. For whatever reason, as soon as mom had a baby, it was off for me. I wasn't to know my little baby brother, see my mother get teary-eyed at my graduation, or have her mess with my hair before Junior prom. Nor would she stay up at night worrying about how she'd finance my college education like Harvey.

Yes, bitter.

Now, I berrate myself. After years of neglect and not sending me a single word, I was still waiting for a bone from them at eighteen. When Aunt Lauren sent me a letter with a plane ticket and an invitation to rejoin the family on a cruise ship, I didn't tell Harvey more than I would be in Mexico and with my freshman class.

Stupid, is the better word.