When Ivy’s art career suddenly takes off, her parents, who once abandoned her, return, full of smiles and hidden agendas. But Ivy has a plan of her own. This is a story of betrayal, belonging, and the family we choose, in which one woman finds her voice to rewrite an ending they never expected.
My parents didn’t die. They just left.
Not right away; not with packed suitcases and slamming doors like in the movies. No, Tanya and Charlie disappeared bit by bit, arguing over who should take me that week, as if I were a stray cat that had been forgotten.
I was 10 when I realised they didn’t want me anymore. Not because I did anything wrong, not even because they were having a hard time, but because they moved on with their lives without me.
My parents didn’t die. They just left.
My father, Charlie, married Kristen, his long-time ‘friend’ who always wore heavy perfume and smiled as if she had secrets she wouldn’t let me in on. She had a son named Travis, just a year younger than me, and soon after the wedding she gave birth to a daughter with honey-coloured curls.
‘Our little sunshine.’
They became my father’s family, his real family, the one he showed off at barbecues and put on Christmas cards.
And me? Oh. I was the unwanted child.
They became my father’s family.
My mother, Tanya, married Donnie. He had powerful forearms and a voice that never rose above a grumble, but for some reason he still scared me more than screams. He didn’t like disturbances, especially children who cried during films or demanded help with maths.
When my stepsister, Rosie, was born, my mother’s world shrunk to a schedule of bottles and sleep training apps.
Her hugs became one-armed pats, and her conversations shorter and thinner.
‘Ivy, you need to be quiet. Donnie just worked a double shift,’ she said once when I tried to show her a sketch of our backyard.
I remember the night they stopped pretending. I heard them arguing behind the closed bedroom door.
‘She’s not my daughter, Tanya. Seriously. I didn’t want kids. Rosie is different because she’s my blood,’ Donnie grumbled.
‘She’s not my daughter, Tanya. Seriously. I didn’t want kids.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘She’s not his either. Charlie doesn’t even call anymore, Don,’ my mother hissed.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘She’s not coming in here,’ Donnie said.
Late that night, Mum sat me down at the kitchen table, her warm hands wrapped around a cup of tea.
‘Darling… it might be better if you stayed with Aunt Carol for a while. Just until we sort things out.’
‘She doesn’t fit in here.’
The next morning, my father came, and they packed my life into three bin bags.
They didn’t even bother to take suitcases and cardboard boxes; bin bags were good enough.
When we arrived at Aunt Carol’s tiny house, she opened the door, still drying her hands with a towel. Her eyebrows furrowed when she saw me standing between my parents, a couple who preferred not to be seen together.
‘Hello, Ivy, baby,’ she said, smiling at me.
And then she noticed the bags.
” Why does she have… luggage?” she asked, looking at me and my mother.
Tanya laughed too loudly and smoothed her blouse, as if we had just stopped by for tea.
‘You two will have so much fun together!’ she said. ‘We’ll pick her up later, Carol! Thank you!’
My aunt’s face changed. She wasn’t angry or upset, just stunned. And I saw it then, in that moment, when I realised they weren’t coming back.
Nevertheless, she didn’t ask any more questions. She crouched down slightly and opened her arms to me.
She wasn’t angry or upset, just stunned.
‘Come inside, dear,’ she said. ‘Let’s get the guest room ready for you.’
My parents were gone before I could look back.
Aunt Carol didn’t ask any questions for several evenings. At least she didn’t ask what I was afraid she would ask. She hugged me like someone who really meant it, made us cheese toasties, and put me up in her guest room with a blanket that smelled of fabric softener and old books.
I haven’t felt so cared for in a long time. I remember wanting to cry as I fell asleep.
My parents disappeared before I could look back.
But just as I was about to do so, my aunt sat down on the edge of the bed, gently brushing the hair from my face.
‘You’re not a burden, Ivy,’ she whispered. ‘You’re a blessing. And I mean that, my little love.’
Something in my heart broke, not from pain this time, but from relief.
In the weeks that followed, she gave me my own key so I could come in after school and let me paint my bedroom walls sky blue.
When I changed my mind, she brought a new pack of paint rollers and white paint.
‘You’re a blessing. And I mean that.’
‘Let’s start over, then, Miss Van Gogh,’ she said, smiling. ‘Even the most beautiful flowers need to be replanted sometimes.’
She never called me stubborn, emotional, or messy. She always said I was growing.