Ivy’s Second Chance
I was just three years old when I was adopted.
My parents had tried for years to have a daughter. They already had two sons, Liam and Josh, and they said a little girl would “complete” their family. So they adopted me. From the outside, it probably looked like a happy story—big house, two big brothers, and a sweet little girl to finish the picture.
But that picture? It had cracks you couldn’t see.
Liam and Josh never accepted me. Liam was five years older, Josh two. And they made it clear right away that I didn’t belong.
“You don’t belong here, Ivy,” Liam once whispered when no one was around.
“You’re not even blood,” Josh added another time.
“Mom and Dad are always tired because of you,” they’d say, their voices sharp like knives.
And it wasn’t just them. Our cousins—Emma, Chloe, Noah, Ryan, Ava, and Blake—they joined in like it was some cruel game.
They laughed at the way I dressed, teased me about not having baby photos in the living room, and always made sure I knew I was different.
The adults weren’t any better. Aunt Deborah acted like I was invisible. Uncle Frank couldn’t even look me in the eye. The neighbors would whisper when they thought I couldn’t hear, calling me “the charity case.”
Only one person ever made me feel like I mattered—Grandpa Walter.
He’d pull me into his lap, tell me stories about fishing, childhood pranks, and how he danced with Grandma at a school party and never let go. He taught me how to garden, fish, and sew up a ripped pair of jeans.
“You’re stronger than you think, Ivy,” he used to say. And whenever the cousins picked on me at family parties, he was always there.
“You don’t mess with my girl,” he’d say firmly, stepping in front of me.
Then he’d take me to the kitchen and hand me a chocolate donut or a cupcake, like I was someone special.
But then, when I turned 18, everything changed.
My parents died in a car crash.
It was raining. They were driving back from a trip they’d planned months earlier. A semi-truck ran a red light. The crash was instant.
They were gone. Just like that.
The funeral was cold and gray. Black umbrellas. People murmuring behind me. Liam and Josh stood beside me like statues. They didn’t even hold my hand.
I didn’t cry—but not because I didn’t want to. I clenched my fists so tight my nails dug into my palms just to stay standing.
Aunt Deborah and Uncle Frank became our legal guardians.
Within a week, I was living in their house—and it felt like falling into a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.
They didn’t even try to pretend they cared.
I became their maid. I did laundry, scrubbed the tub, made dinner, and disappeared into the background unless someone needed something.
Deborah would snap at me if I left a crumb on the counter. Frank barely said a word to me. And the cousins? They came by all the time, mocking me like it was their favorite hobby.
“Still pretending you belong here, Ivy?” Emma smirked.
“Maybe your real parents just didn’t want you,” Noah sneered.
So I stopped talking. I smiled in public. Cried in the garage where no one would hear. I shrank a little more every day.
Only Grandpa Walter still saw me. He called, checked in. But he was older now—his voice slower, his back bent. He couldn’t protect me from everything.
Then one Tuesday afternoon, while I was folding a mountain of towels, my phone rang.
Unknown Number.
“Hi,” said a man on the line. “Is this Ivy?”
“Yes?” I replied carefully.
“My name is Mr. Reyes. I’m the attorney for your biological father’s sister, Margot. She passed away recently… and left something for you in her will.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”
“She’s left you a private inheritance. Ivy, your aunt Margot has been looking for you for years. And… she left you three million dollars.”
I dropped the towel I was holding.
Three. Million. Dollars.
My name. In a will. A relative who remembered me.
I thought it was a cruel prank. One of my cousins playing a sick joke.
But it wasn’t.
I flew out to meet Mr. Reyes the next week. He met me with a kind smile, legal documents, and a letter sealed in lavender.
Everything was real. The inheritance. The house. The savings. The journals. The love.
And then I read the letter.
“Ivy, darling,
You were never supposed to be forgotten. Your parents were just kids—scared and not ready. My brother panicked. Our parents forced the adoption.
I wasn’t allowed to fight for you then. But I promised myself… if I could ever find you, I’d make sure you knew this: You were never disposable.
You deserve a life full of joy. You deserve to choose your own path.
Love always,
Aunt Margot.”
I read it again. And again. Until the shaking in my hands stopped.
The next day, I packed my things. No long goodbye. No tears.
I left a note on the counter for Deborah:
“I found where I belong. Don’t wait up. Don’t look for me.”
The only person I brought with me was Grandpa Walter.
He took off his green garden gloves, grinned and said, “Took you long enough, Ivy-girl. Now let’s build you a future.”
We moved into Margot’s house by the sea. A cozy blue cottage with ivy climbing the porch like it had waited just for me.
One evening, while we cooked dinner together—him stirring cheesecake batter, me peeling potatoes—he asked:
“Do you ever think about college, Ivy?”
“Not really,” I shrugged. “I never thought it was for me. I was too busy just surviving. And now… I don’t know. I finally have this peace.”
He cracked an egg, looked at me.
“You’ve got three million dollars, Ivy. That’s a gift. But it’s not your future.”
“You think I’ll waste it?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I think you’ll stop growing if you don’t dream bigger.”
I looked around the warm kitchen. The smell of garlic and rosemary filled the air. And I thought.
“I want to go to culinary school,” I said softly. “Not because I have to. But because I love cooking. I always have.”
He smiled, pride shining in his eyes.
“Then let’s find the best damn school on this coast.”
Six weeks later, we opened a coffee shop by the shore and called it Second Chance.
Grandpa gave out muffins to school kids. I baked pies and quiches and learned to make foam hearts in lattes. I signed up for culinary school and felt nervous for the first time in years—in a good way.
Then the cousins started texting.
“Hey Ivy! The shop looks so cute! We should visit!” —Emma.
Blocked.
“So, you’re rich now? Must be nice.” —Noah.
Ignored.
Then Liam called.
“I didn’t know you were going through so much,” he said. “We were just kids…”
I let him talk. And when he was done, I replied, “You were old enough to know better. Are you calling to say sorry… or because you want something?”
Silence.
“Are you happy, Ivy?” he asked finally.
“I’m learning to be,” I said. “Without you.”
One Saturday, Grandpa and I sat outside the shop, watching the waves. He handed me an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“From your parents,” he said quietly. “I found it before we moved. Thought you weren’t ready before.”
I opened it.
“Dad, we’re so excited to bring Ivy home. We know it won’t always be easy, but we love her already. We want her to feel safe, seen, and chosen. We can’t wait to raise her with love.”
I stared at the words. Tears welled in my eyes.
“I think they meant it,” I whispered. “At least in the beginning.”
“They just didn’t know how to protect you from the rest,” Grandpa said.
“But you did,” I told him.
He smiled. “You did the rest.”
That night, I lit a candle for Aunt Margot. I baked her shortbread cookies, read her journal, and played her favorite record.
And for the first time in my life, I felt chosen—not by others, but by the life I had built for myself.
Not the one I was given.
The one I claimed.