Part 3Zero Stars Left For Daddy

The following morning, while the sky was still a bruised, misty gray, I slipped out of the apartment.

I had to visit the community outreach center.

The director there was Mrs. Alvarez, a warm, stout woman with kind eyes who had worked alongside Mom organizing book drives for the local library.

I sat in her small office and laid out the facts as plainly as I could: Dad was away on an extended business trip out of the country and couldn't be reached, and Mom had passed away suddenly during the night.

Tears spilled over Mrs. Alvarez’s round cheeks. She pulled me into a tight hug that smelled of spearmint and wool, then took me by the hand to the county vital records office and the police precinct.

Given the emergency circumstances, they fast-tracked the paperwork.

When the official death certificate was finally handed to me, bearing its crisp, crimson registrar seal, I folded it carefully into quarters and slipped it into the inner chest pocket of my coat, right over my ribs.

From there, I took the municipal bus across town to the county crematory.

After completing the intake paperwork and paying the cold storage and cremation fees, the balance on Mom’s old checking account read exactly zero dollars and zero cents.

The clerk behind the glass partition told me that due to the queue, the earliest date for the service would be three days from now.

When I walked out of the building, the afternoon sunlight hit my face, sharp and blindingly bright.

By the time I took the bus back home, it was past two in the afternoon.

As soon as the apartment door cracked open, the scent of rich, savory food hit my nose.

Simon was sitting at the head of the dining table, spooning sweet-and-sour pork tenderloin onto Courtney’s plate. That was Mom’s specialty. She only ever made it on special occasions—like the day I brought home a report card full of straight A's.

Now, Candice was wearing Mom’s floral linen apron, carrying a tureen of soup out from the kitchen.

"Hazel's home," Candice said, offering a practiced, gentle smile that made her look like the undisputed lady of the house. "Go wash your hands, sweetie. Lunch is ready."

Simon glanced up at me, his fork coming down onto his plate with a sharp clatter.

"Where the hell have you been wandering off to all morning? You're becoming completely undisciplined, just like your mother."

I didn't take off my sneakers. I walked straight up to the dining table. "I had errands to run."

Simon barked out a bitter laugh. "Errands? What errands does a seven-year-old run? You went looking for her, didn't you?"

He set his fork aside, his eyes narrowing into cold slits.

"Tell me the truth. Which hotel is Marian hiding in? Did she send you back here to fetch her credit cards?"

I looked him dead in the eye, my voice entirely flat. "She isn't hiding in a hotel."

Simon’s face darkened, convinced I was covering for her.

"Still lying for her!"

He whipped his phone out of his slacks, brought up a mobile banking alert, and thrust the screen inches from my nose.

"Explain this! This morning, over three thousand dollars was charged to her debit card in the South District! She claimed she left without a wallet, didn't she? Claimed she ran away with nothing?"

He slammed his hand on the table.

"Spending my hard-earned money gallivanting around the city while dumping her own daughter at home without a care in the world! That’s your sainted mother for you!"

I looked at the number glowing on the screen.

$3,200. The exact total for the refrigeration, processing, and cremation fees.

"That was her own money," I said softly.

"Her money?" Simon laughed, a sound dripping with pure contempt. "She hasn't worked a single day since she married me! She lived in luxury, never having to lift a finger! Every single penny that woman ever touched came out of my pocket!"

Candice quickly set the soup bowl down, moving behind Simon’s chair to gently massage his tense shoulders.

"Simon, don't let yourself get worked up over a child. Marian probably just needed to clear her head, maybe buy some new clothes. She’s entitled to spend a little, after all. She is your wife."

Courtney, chewing on a piece of pork, piped up with her mouth full. "Uncle Simon, did Hazel's mommy really abandon her? There's a girl in my class whose mom stole her dad's cash and ran away, and she never came back ever again."

Simon looked down at me, his gaze freezing over.

"You hear that? Even Courtney has more sense than you do. Since your mother wants to act like a martyr, let her stay out in the cold. We’ll see how long she lasts once that card runs dry and she has to come crawling back on her knees."

He paused, his voice dropping into something dangerous and final.

"Starting tomorrow, you are forbidden from looking for her. If she doesn't walk through that door and beg for forgiveness, she will never set foot in this home again."

I looked down at the glistening plate of pork tenderloin on the table.

"She doesn't need your permission," I said.

I turned toward the hallway.

Simon’s palm cracked against the wooden table like a gunshot.

"Stand right there!"

I halted, but I didn't turn around.

"This afternoon, Candice is taking Courtney to register for the youth arts program," Simon commanded, leaving no room for debate. "I remember Marian spent months pulling strings to secure an audition spot for the Metropolitan Youth Symphony. Courtney needs that spot far more than you do. Go get the registration packet and give it to Candice."

I turned around slowly, staring at him.

That audition packet was something Mom had stood in the freezing November rain for three hours to obtain, waiting outside the conductor’s studio until he finally agreed to hear a recording of my cello playing. Mom had told me I had a true gift, that this audition would be the door to a world where I could truly fly.

"Mom got that for me," I said, my small hands balling into fists.

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose, his irritation mounting.

"You're seven years old. What do you know about opportunity? Courtney has a statewide piano showcase next month. Having the Youth Symphony on her transcript will guarantee her the prize. Your mother is playing ghost right now anyway—leaving that spot empty is just a complete waste."

Candice feigned hesitation, gently tugging at Simon's arm. "Simon, this isn't right. Marian went to so much trouble for Hazel. Courtney shouldn't take it."

Simon’s tone was iron. "I said it's fine. What I say goes in this house." He pointed at me. "Go fetch the folder. Don't make me drag you."

Looking at his self-righteous, arrogant face, an overwhelming exhaustion washed through me. The anger didn't even burn anymore; it just turned to ash.

"Okay," I said.

I walked into my room, opened my desk drawer, and took out the blue folder stamped with the gold seal of the Youth Symphony.

I carried it out and laid it flat on the dining table.

Simon gathered the paperwork with a nod of satisfaction, handing it directly to Candice.

"That's more like it." He didn't spare me another look. "I have to head to the office this afternoon. You stay in your room, and don't you dare give your Aunt Candice any trouble."