Chapter Text
At the age of 11, most girls are usually preoccupied with schoolwork, friendships, or choosing their outfits for the first day of school. However, when I turned 11, my concerns were far from typical. Instead, I found myself caught up in the whirlwind of an international move. My father and stepmother were newly married and had grand plans to start a new life in America. My father, eager to expand his business, saw this move as a significant opportunity.
Their wedding was nothing short of extravagant, with a royal theme that spared no expense. It was a celebration that seemed to signal the beginning of a fairy tale. Yet, for my step-brother and me, it marked the start of a confusing and uncertain period. After the wedding, my father and stepmother embarked on a two-month-long honeymoon that doubled as a house-hunting expedition in the United States.
During this time, my step-brother and I were left in the care of his grandfather. Isolated from our parents and the life we knew, we had little understanding of what was unfolding. We weren't just dealing with the typical concerns of preteens; we were grappling with the anxiety of an impending move to a foreign country, the absence of our parents, and the adjustments that come with blending families.
This experience forced me to grow up faster than my peers. While they worried about school and social circles, I was trying to make sense of a new country, a new family dynamic, and the changes that came with my father's ambitious plans. This period of my life was a formative one, shaping my resilience and adaptability in ways I couldn't have imagined at the time.
My father was the CEO of a prominent horse-riding company. His business thrived on selling tack, employing trainers, and owning stables and riding facilities all across Wales. This meant we were living a very comfortable life—in fact, who am I kidding? We were rich. Filthy, fucking rich. I don't mean to sound spoiled or ungrateful because I understand that some people would kill to have this kind of life. But it’s difficult to appreciate such luxury when, just five nights before my father's extravagant wedding, I was standing three feet away from my mother's freshly buried casket.
The dichotomy of these events was stark and jarring. On one hand, there was the opulence of my father's royal-themed wedding, a symbol of new beginnings and lavish celebrations. On the other hand, there was the profound grief and loss I felt, a void that no amount of wealth could fill. While everyone around me was caught up in the excitement of the wedding and the move to America, I was grappling with my sorrow and the overwhelming changes happening all at once
Losing my mother wasn’t what I thought it would be like. Yes, she was my mother, but we weren’t very close. After my parents' divorce, I only saw her during the summers. Our limited time together meant we never really fought, primarily because we weren't around each other enough to have reasons to. We shared occasional meals, often in a comfortable quietness. Our relationship resembled that of a niece and an aunt more than a traditional mother-daughter bond, but we got along just fine.
Yet, as I stood there watching her lie so pale and sick, I was the saddest I had ever been. Even though we hadn’t been very close, she was still a constant presence in my life. I always knew she was there for me, always had a place to go. But seeing her like that made me feel truly alone in the world for the first time. It was a feeling of senselessness, almost as if I were dead myself. My body shook, not from the cold wind, but from the raw, overwhelming grief.
My mother's death left me in a state of shock and profound sadness. She passed away five years ago, but the memory of that moment remains vivid. It was a turning point, marking the end of one chapter and the beginning of a very different one. Despite our distant relationship, her death affected me deeply, reshaping my understanding of loss and the importance of family ties. In the years since, I've learned to navigate life without her, but the experience has left an indelible mark on me.
My father has decided that it's time for me to go back to Wales to live with my step-grandfather, just as I did during their honeymoon. Now 16, I recently found myself at the center of an incident that triggered this decision. With less than a week left of junior year, some of my senior friends were preparing to graduate. To celebrate, we went out drinking and smoking, a night that ended disastrously. I ended up in the passenger seat of a car that crashed into a guardrail.
My so-called "friends" managed to escape unscathed and fled the scene, but I wasn't so lucky. I was left pinned in my seat and unconscious. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a hospital, where I would spend the next four weeks recovering from my injuries.
This accident was the final straw for my father. Despite our wealth and the opportunities it afforded me, he felt that a change was necessary. He believed that returning to Wales, away from the influences that led to the accident, would be the best course of action. So, I was sent back to live with my step-grandfather.
It was not his decision to send me away that truly broke my heart, and ruined any relationship we might have been able to have. It was the choice he made closely after that.
My dreams of riding professionally were quite literally crushed. After the accident, I was told that racing was out of the question due to the risk of blood clots and other blood issues that could cause serious damage. Riding was the only thing keeping me going, and now it was being taken away from me. My father didn't even take a week to process the news; on the same day, he sold my horse to a pre-professional jockey who could ride him.
It was that decision that truly ripped my heart to shreds, that horse was not just mine but my mothers. We had raised him together from birth. He was my one thing I still had from her. He was my best friend, I loved that horse and he just ripped him away in less than a week.
The day I got out of the hospital, filled with rage and despair, I acted out in the only way I knew how. I stole my father's credit card and went on a spree, spending more than $20,000 on clothing, makeup, and shoes. It was an impulsive attempt to fill the void left by the loss of my dreams and the life I had known.
That act of rebellion was a misguided attempt to assert control over a situation where I felt utterly powerless. The accident had taken away not just my physical ability to ride, but also my sense of identity and purpose. Riding was more than a hobby; it was my passion, my solace, and my future. Losing it felt like losing a part of myself.
The aftermath of my spending spree only added to the turmoil. My father's decision to send me back to Wales was a direct result of my reckless behavior. He saw it as a necessary step to remove me from the environment that had led to the accident and my subsequent outburst. I was angry and hurt, feeling betrayed by the person who was supposed to understand and support me. Returning to Wales, to live with my step-grandfather, was a bitter pill to swallow. It felt like exile, a punishment for my mistakes.
Now I'm sitting on the plane to Anglesey, Wales, where I'll be spending the next two semesters of my schooling career at Holloway Academy, the most prestigious private school on the island. The trip from California to Wales took more than ten hours. The plane ride was excruciating; the seats were uncomfortable, and some guy near me kept getting up every five minutes to use the bathroom, waking me up every single time.
Despite the discomfort, there was a small bright spot. I ended up sitting next to a young girl and her mother. Watching them bond, laughing and chatting together, made the trip a little more bearable. It reminded me of the closeness I longed for, especially after everything that had happened.
It was about noon when the plane finally landed. As I walked through the airport, the weight of my situation settled heavily on me. I was scanning the crowd for Frank, my step-grandfather. The last time I had been here, my life was different, my dreams intact. Now, everything has changed.
After wandering for a bit, I felt my phone buzz. It was a text from Frank
Running late. Be there at 10. Wait for me at the coffee shop. - Gramps.
Gramps. Not the first name I would have come up with, but it's sweet that he was trying. I followed his directions and located the closest and only coffee shop nearby, right across the street from the airport. It was small and cozy, a perfect spot to kill some time. I ordered a latte and a muffin to hold me over until my step-grandfather got here.
Settling into a corner table, I pulled out my computer and started typing away at some of the summer work I needed to finish before courses started in the next two weeks at Holloway Academy. The familiar rhythm of typing helped soothe my nerves, distracting me from the whirlwind of changes and emotions I was dealing with.
An hour went by, and still no sign of Frank. I glanced at the clock, starting to feel a bit anxious. Checking my phone, there were no new messages or missed calls. I tried to stay calm, reminding myself that he was likely just delayed. The coffee shop's atmosphere was a blend of comforting aromas and soft chatter. It was a stark contrast to the chaos that had filled my life recently. The barista, noticing my frequent glances toward the door, offered a sympathetic smile. I returned it weakly, appreciating the small gesture of kindness.
I went back to my phone,
Gramps: Running late. Be there at 10. Wait for me at the coffee shop.
Me: Sure thing. See you soon.
Me: Found the coffee shop. Ordered a latte and a muffin. Getting some summer work done while I wait.
Me: Still no sign of you. Everything ok?
At around 2 o'clock, a boy who appeared to be around my age entered the shop. Normally, I wouldn't have noticed him, but he burst through the door and loudly called out my name. Startled, I turned to look at him quickly. Our eyes met instantly, and there was a moment of recognition between us. He made his way over to where I was sitting, his expression a mix of determination and curiosity, as if he had been searching for me.
As he approached, the atmosphere in the coffee shop seemed to pause momentarily, with other patrons glancing over at the commotion. I wondered who he was and why he was calling out my name so loudly.
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"Anne?!" The whole coffee shop turned their heads as this kid screamed my name like it was his life's mission to find me. I didn't have a clue who he was.
"That's me!" I responded, trying to match his enthusiasm with a polite smile.
"My name's Marcus," he said, stepping closer. He was tall—just enough that I had to crane my neck to look up at him or risk making eye contact with his chest. His brown hair complemented piercing green eyes, and I couldn't deny he was handsome. He had a fit build and a grin so wide it could light up the room. It was the kind of smile that made you want to smile back just by looking at it. “Your grandfather asked for me to come pick you up, his car kinda broke down.”
"That's a relief," I said, trying to suppress my initial annoyance. "He wasn't answering his texts, and I was worried he might have been hurt."
Marcus chuckled lightly. "Nah, his phone died too. I was passing by when he asked if I could come pick you up." As he mentioned riding by, a pang of jealousy shot through me. He was a rider. Of course, I found myself irrationally jealous of someone I barely knew.
"Well, thanks for coming," I managed, pushing aside my envy. "I appreciate it."
"No problem. My car's just outside. We better hurry; everyone's excited to meet Frank's new granddaughter." Marcus gestured towards the door, and suddenly, the weight of my jealousy hit me harder than a truck.
I followed Marcus out of the coffee shop, trying to shake off my mixed feelings. As we walked to his car, I realized how unfair it was to resent him. After all, Marcus was just helping out, and I should be grateful for that.
The ride to Frank's, which was supposed to take about 30 minutes from the airport, felt like it stretched on for hours with Marcus driving as slow as a 70-year-old on winding country roads. The car was filled with nothing but awkward small talk and an ambiance of English country music, a genre I didn't even know existed until today.
After what seemed like an eternity, we finally arrived after about 45 minutes. I quickly exited the car, offering a swift thank you and a wave goodbye to Marcus. Grabbing my luggage, I made my way towards Frank's house, eager to settle in after the long journey.
The house loomed larger than I remembered, standing proudly at three stories tall. Its aged brick walls were adorned with vines that crept up and down, adding a touch of rustic charm. Surrounding the grounds were bushes bursting with beautiful purple flowers, while a wire fence enclosed the property, giving it a sense of seclusion and tranquility.
As Marcus's car pulled away, I approached the front door. Before I could even raise my hand to knock, the door swung open, revealing Frank's familiar face. With a bright smile, he swept me into a warm embrace, his excitement palpable.
"Anne, my dear!" Frank exclaimed, his voice filled with joy and relief. "Welcome back to Wales. Come in, come in!"
I endured the hug, feeling a rush of little comfort and a bit of familiarity wash over me. Stepping into the house, I breathed in the familiar scent
"Finally, I am so sorry about the whole thing," Frank apologized sincerely, his voice tinged with relief. "The car broke down, and my phone died. Thank God Marcus was riding by, or I don't know what I would have done."
He seemed genuinely enthusiastic about my arrival, his eyes bright with warmth as he ushered me inside. "Well, let me show you to your room. I bet you're exhausted."
I nodded gratefully, feeling the weight of the long journey settle on my shoulders. "Yeah, it's been quite a day," I admitted, following Frank as he led the way through the spacious hallway of the house.
As we climbed the staircase to the upper floors, I couldn't help but notice the familiar creak of the steps underfoot and the comforting smell of old wood. The house was as I remembered it from my childhood visit—cozy and full of character.
Frank opened a door on the second floor, revealing a beautifully appointed bedroom with a view of the lush fields outside. "Here you go, Anne. I hope you'll find it comfortable," he said warmly, stepping aside to let me enter.
I glanced around the room, taking in the soft colors and the inviting bed. "It's perfect, Frank. Thank you," I said sincerely, turning to him with a grateful smile.
He smiled back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Get settled in. Dinner will be ready soon. I'll let you rest," he said kindly before heading back down the hallway.
Alone in my new room, I unpacked my belongings, feeling a sense of calm wash over me. Despite the chaotic start, I was glad to be back in Wales and in Frank's comforting presence.