Chapter 3

When I got back, I went to see Gran first.

I walked in on her mid-phone call. The old red telephone — the one that only rang on holidays — was pressed to her ear, and she was speaking in a low, hurried voice.

The line had a faint crackle, as if the distance itself was straining against the connection.

"I've told you so many times — don't let Stella come looking for you!"

"I worked so hard to get rid of that burden. What do you think you're doing?"

"I told you to get rid of her back then. You wouldn't listen. Now look at the mess. If she ruins what I've built here, so help me—"

Gran's eyes darted to me. She turned away and murmured something into the receiver, then hung up quickly.

"Stella, love. Your mum didn't mean it like that."

I gave her the best smile I had. "It's alright, Gran. Sorry I didn't bring anything back."

She opened her mouth, closed it, and eventually shuffled off to the kitchen, returning with a pot of tea and a plate of digestive biscuits — my childhood comfort, the same as always.

"Eat up. Then you get yourself back to university."

I nodded. And then, quietly, I went to my old room and pulled out everything my mother had ever sent.

Every gift. Every package.

Gran had always said she'd saved up to buy them herself — scrimping and sacrificing. But now I looked at them with different eyes.

The reading pen had a name engraved on it. Sofia. Not a brand. A name.

The floral dress I'd treasured for years, never worn because I was afraid of ruining it — the size tag was two sizes too large for me.

The ice skates everyone at school had been so envious of were half a size too small. As a kid, I'd forced my feet into them anyway, too proud to admit they didn't fit.

I'd spent years treasuring these things, believing they were proof that she was thinking of me.

She'd been sending me Sofia's castoffs. Every single one.

I was no more than a charity bin for things her real daughter no longer wanted.

I packed everything into a bag and walked it to the dustbin outside.

Standing in the cold, I looked up at the moon.

It's the same moon she can see from across the ocean, I thought. And I felt nothing.

From today, I wasn't wishing on her anymore.

I was going to be my own wishing star.

Three years. Over a thousand days and nights. I didn't rest once.

After that night, I buried myself in work. I finished my degree a year early. Top of my cohort, dual honors — finance and law. By my third year, I'd landed an internship at one of the most prestigious investment banks in London. When I graduated, I walked straight into a full-time offer. By my second year working, I'd jumped to a top hedge fund and been promoted to investment manager.

A journalism student from Cambridge once interviewed me for a profile. She asked why I pushed myself so hard.

I thought about it for a moment. Then I opened my bag and took out a small reading pen.

I'd fished it out of the dustbin after I threw it away. I don't know why I kept it.

"At first," I said, "all I wanted was to have something with my name on it. Something that was bought for me. Not handed down."

"I just wanted to prove I was worth a brand-new one."

She didn't quite understand. But she wrote down every word, faithfully, and published it.

In my third year, my firm sent me to represent them at an international investment summit.

"Stella," my director said, "you'll be presenting to some of the biggest names in the industry. You're the youngest speaker on the programme. Make it count."

I looked at the location on the brief.

San Francisco.

My whole body went still.

I'd been waiting for this for five years. Maybe longer.

I thought about the parents' evening in Year Five. Every chair in the classroom had someone in it — every chair except mine. My classmates pointed and whispered all afternoon. I cried for the rest of the day. That night, I begged Gran to ring Mum on the international line.

The call rang for a long time before someone picked up.

Then the line went dead before I could say a word.