My name is Eleven. It’s not a nickname—it’s what my parents wrote on my birth certificate when they ran out of interest. Born on November 11th, thirteen months after my “perfect” sister Raven, I was treated like an afterthought from the start. For my first ten years, I lived with my grandmother Martha, not my parents. They said it was practical. I learned later it was convenient. Grandma was my world. She taught me warmth, courage, and something my parents never gave me: belief.
When Grandma died suddenly, she left me one last gift—a secret. Hidden beneath her bed was a trust worth ten million dollars, locked until my eighteenth birthday. “They will try to break you,” she warned. “Don’t let them.” Back in my parents’ house, I became invisible. I slept in the attic, cooked, cleaned, and watched Raven receive everything. I counted the days until I could leave.
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