My mother had grifted her way into the Holts’ lives when Caden and I were both almost eight, and Gage was ten. A little more than six years later, she’d grifted her way out, but left me behind. I was fourteen. In place of everything she’d taken, all she’d left me was a letter she’d slipped under the pillow of my bed, inside a single envelope addressed to Daughter of Mine.
