𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

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river miller!

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river miller!





⎯⎯⎯⎯ MY SISTER AND I, WE'RE WHAT SOME people call "Irish Twins." That means we popped into this world with less than a year's gap between us. Our mom, well, she was my age, a mere 15 when she brought my older sis, Virginia, or Ginny, into this world. Homeless and with hardly a soul to call family.

Our old man's parents were rightfully ticked off and disappointed when their son knocked up a homeless girl. But give 'em credit, they didn't abandon our mom during that pregnancy. No, they stuck around.

Soon after Ginny's birth, they floated the idea of legal guardianship. That's what set our mom on the run, vanishing' into the night, Ginny in tow.

She landed in New Orleans, scrubbin' floors as a maid in some ratty hotel. But as fate would have it, she didn't stay long, hightailed' it out of that place for reasons we'd learn about later.

Mom eventually resurfaced in Virginia, just like she disappeared, in the dead of night. But this time, she brought back a surprise: a baby cradled in her arms.

Now, my grandparents, they never really trusted our mom, so when they laid eyes on the bundle she claimed was their son's, they had to be sure. Sure, I looked just like my old man did when he was a baby, but that wasn't gonna cut it. Naturally, they demanded a paternity test, and it spat out the truth—I was blood kin to the Millers.

As Ginny and I grew, we bore witness to the rollercoaster of a relationship between our folks. Each of their encounters left us a bit more terrified than the last.

Slowly but surely, I started unraveling, retreating into myself. The never-ending instability had been gnawing away at my very being.




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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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Growing Pains: Marcus BakerWhere stories live. Discover now