Second Chance

Three days ago in Los Angeles, California.

The room was suddenly filled with the sound of shattering glass, and despite my body shivering slightly, I couldn’t help but be grateful for his awful aim.

He clenched his fists and stood up, quickly yanking me by my hair toward him. I let out a groan of pain, though it barely registered—I knew if I played it cool, it would only spark another explosion of rage from him, something I wasn’t ready to face.

He dragged me into the kitchen and tossed me onto the floor. A smile broke across my face; the day I had been waiting for had finally arrived. He strode over to the sink, washing his hands with an air of self-importance. “Just like Pilate,” he muttered quietly, perhaps trying to sound mysterious. Then, with a sly grin, he reached for a bread knife from the cutlery set.

The blade sparkled in the sunlight, radiating a brilliance that momentarily blinded me as its rays reflected straight into my eyes. It felt as if I had this invisible beef with Mother Nature herself.

Meanwhile, the kitchen was filled with an overwhelming scent that hinted at both betrayal and a bleak future. Or maybe I was just being a bit overdramatic, and it was really those sketchy drugs Oscar always brought in on Saturdays that lingered in the air.

Oscar set the bread knife down on the counter and reached for our usual knives, the ones we used for just about everything. I glanced back at the neglected bread knife, letting out a sigh. Seriously, couldn’t he have just put it back properly instead of leaving it to clutter up the place?

Then he slammed his fist against the cupboard and shot me a look. “I’m so fed up with you; your whole existence is a drag—” He kept going on about how my presence was just pointless, ranting on and on until, after his dramatic monologue, he started marching toward me with a determined stride.

Oscar always tried to make everything look cool, kind of like a budget version of Power Rangers. Even though we weren’t too far apart, he charged at me, shouting like he’d finally figured out how to break free from the chains that kept him somewhat sane on his better days.

That was where he went wrong.

There was a ton of spilled alcohol from his drinking games with his imaginary buddy, so it was no surprise when he slipped and fell. The knife went soaring through the air, and I instinctively moved so it could land harmlessly—just not in the way you’d think. It hit the floor, directly into someone’s head... but not mine.

Present day Los Angeles, California. Oscar's Family Home

“Mrs. Miller, you need to take a breath. We can’t keep dwelling on what’s happened; it’s still just speculation that she was involved,” the lawyer said calmly.

Mrs. Miller swatted his hand away, clearly fed up with the attempt at comfort. “Don’t spout such nonsense! Are you listening to the ridiculous things she’s saying in front of us? Is she out of her mind?”

As I sat back, savoring the chilled red wine that the butler had just poured, I couldn't help but observe the chaos unfolding around me. People were in a frenzy, questioning their very existence, while I relaxed amidst the commotion. Oscar's family was the epitome of wealth—truly "The Rich among the Rich."

We were in a room adorned in rich golden and blue hues—a fascinating choice, really. Everywhere I looked, there were stunning artifacts and renowned artworks that added an astonishing flair to the space. The floor was an intriguing sight, too; it was meticulously arranged with pennies forming a rose shape, sparking a mischievous urge to snatch a few and see if they held any value.

Though the room carried the heavy scent of alcohol, it was undoubtedly the high-end variety. Mr. Miller shifted his attention from his wife to me, his expression intense. Clearing his throat, he sounded more like he was attempting to expel a stubborn frog than anything else. "Kourtney, could you please clarify for us, in detail, how our son passed away?"

I straightened my dress, ready to dive into the story again. This time, I went into even more detail—sharing what I had for breakfast and how many times I visited the bathroom before his death. It’s the little things that truly matter, right?

Before my audience could respond to my candid recollection, my mom dropped to her knees and clasped her hands together. She declared me insane and claimed I needed medical help since I was a child, but we hadn’t been able to afford it back then.

I glanced at her, kneeling and vulnerable, and I could almost sense the satisfaction radiating from Mr. and Mrs. Miller. They kept pressing for explanations, but deep down, I knew what they were really after.

I often pondered what had changed in my mother—was it our impoverished life finally taking its toll, or had she always felt this way, just waiting for the perfect moment to reveal her true self? She was completely indifferent to the fact that I was enduring serious abuse from the man she set me up with for her own financial gain. Now, here she is, pleading with his family to forgive me for something I didn't even do.

The lawyer stood up and glanced at his watch. 'I’m running late for an important meeting,' he said. 'Mr. Miller requested that his will be read exactly three days after his passing, and that’s why I’m here.' All eyes zeroed in on him, and Mr. and Mrs. Miller glared, clearly frustrated that he had just dashed their hopes of showing off their wealthy self.

My mom sank back into her chair when the Millers insisted, and the lawyer took a moment to collect himself before diving in. He read through a bunch of irrelevant stuff, but then the moment we had all been waiting for finally arrived.

My mom made her way over to the lawyer with a touch of flair, trying to be discreet about it. Meanwhile, the Millers kicked back and took it easy, hoping with all their hearts that my name wouldn’t come up at all, and they firmly believed it wouldn’t.

Mr. and Mrs. Miller likely weren’t expecting much in the way of inheritance, since Oscar probably figured that by the time he passed, they’d all be ancient history, and honestly, his wealth was really just an extension of his parents’ fortunes—he’d always been dependent on them.

The lawyer fiddled with his glasses and shifted in his chair, gearing up for what was to come.

"I give, devise and bequeath all the rest, residue and remainder of my estate, both real and personal, of whatever kind, and wherever situated to Los Angeles Regional Food Bank, a non profit organization under the laws of the State of California, having its principal office at 1734 East 41st Street, Los Angeles, California 90058, for its general purposes".

Glasses fell, Jaws dropped, Silence dominated and in the midst of it all, I laughed.