Chapter 1: The Real Heiress, Lost and Buried

Funny how life works, isn’t it? I took in a little girl and raised her as my own, only to learn later that she was actually the real daughter of the Whitaker family—the old-money dynasty that owned half of Maple Heights. Can you imagine?

Sometimes I think back to the first time I saw her, bundled up on my doorstep, cheeks red from the wind, nothing but a name tag and a scrap of hope. The Whitakers’ name was the stuff of legend in our town—everybody said their money was older than the map itself. Their secrets? Buried deeper than the roots of the oaks lining the Heights.

For her sake, I steeled myself and sent her back to her birth family.

I remember the night before. I was sitting at our rickety kitchen table, turning over every reason in my mind, weighing my love against her future. The choice felt like swallowing glass, but I told myself this was what a good mother did—gave her child every chance, even if it meant giving her up.

I figured she’d live in comfort and privilege from then on, surrounded by everything she ever wanted.

I imagined her in silks, eating off real china, running through halls bigger than our whole house. I pictured her laugh echoing in marble foyers. Never again would she worry about tomorrow’s meal or winter’s cold.

But I never expected to find her like that. I never expected to find her at the edge of the old town cemetery, left among the unmarked graves.

That day, the sky was gray as ash, wind biting through my coat. She looked so small, swallowed up by the weeds and broken stones, her hair tangled, her hands folded quiet. I wanted to scream, but all I could do was kneel beside her.

I didn’t cry. Couldn’t. After I buried her, I set up a food cart right in front of the Whitaker estate, selling fresh catfish sandwiches.

I worked in silence, my grief buried deep, letting my hands do the talking. The world didn’t stop for my loss—so I kept moving, flipping fish, slicing onions, laying out sandwiches with a kind of stubborn pride.

That girl living in Josie’s place—the impostor heiress—had no idea. Women like me, born with six fingers, are supposed to be blessed with uncanny luck when it comes to children.

Back in the holler, folks would whisper about the six-fingered girls, calling us a curse and a blessing both. They’d say, "A woman with six fingers can turn a barren house into a nursery, or a happy home into a haunted one." Superstition clung to us like river mud.

If one real heiress wasn’t enough to shake up the Whitaker house, then maybe I’d give them a few more little heirs to deal with.

I smiled at the thought, a slow, sharp grin. If fate wanted to play games, I’d play right back—on my own terms.