Seven Years Of Votes And Always One Short Chapter 01

Ten years after I was abducted, my birth parents finally found me.

I was bursting with joy at the thought of going home, but Mom and Dad told me this.

“The Shermans are a century-old prominent family, and they hold strict traditions above all else. You can only be recognized as a Sherman once every family member approves your attendance at the Fourth of July family banquet.”

So every year, at banquet time, the Shermans held their vote at the front gates, lamps lit to deliver the verdict.

The first year, Grandma, who prized poise above every virtue, stared at my brittle, malnutrition-dulled hair and frowned.

The second year, my germ-obsessed Aunt turned away when she saw the dark farm dirt trapped beneath my fingernails.

The fifth year, my brother, the design student, glanced at my dated floral dress and shook his head.

Every single year, we fell short by one vote.

Tears welled in their eyes as Mom and Dad comforted me.

“Fix a few more things, and next year we’ll bring you home for sure.”

This year, I dyed my hair dark, scrubbed my hands dozens of times, and spent months learning poise and styling.

One green light after another finally lit up on the voting panel.

Before I could breathe a sigh of relief, my adopted sister came padding out with the dog in her arms, innocence written all over her face.

“Giggles is family too. Giggles gets to vote!”

The whole family nodded along, soft with adoration.

The pup climbed onto the voting panel, and one last light switched on.

Dad sighed with regret. “Jojo, we’ll reunite with you next year.”

I didn’t cry. I didn’t carry on. I only nodded, calm as glass.

The tenure appointment from France’s most prestigious university was already signed. My flight was booked for the Fourth of July.

If the reunion would never come, then I was done waiting.

…

I had barely turned to go when my brother, Miles Sherman, stepped into my path, brow furrowed.

“What’s with that face? Sore about losing?”

Before I could get a word out, Pearl Sherman, my adopted sister, already had tears brimming.

“Jo, Giggles didn’t mean it.”

“Grandma, can we vote again? Just once more?”

She rose to fetch the voting panel herself.

Miles’s arm shot out to stop her, his frown cutting deeper.

“Pearl, the Shermans live by our rules. Things must stay as they are. We can’t bend the rules for someone.”

He turned his gaze on me, weighing me the way you’d weigh a product that failed inspection.

“Jo Linley. After seven years of trying, you still have no manners. You carry none of the refinement of a Sherman.”

I dropped my gaze and suddenly wanted to laugh.

Five years after my abduction, my adoptive parents died in a car crash.

I grew up on the village’s handouts.

Some days, I’d beg for a bowl of porridge. Other days, I’d plead for a piece of bread.

Every morning I opened my eyes to hunger, or to cold.

I could barely keep myself fed and warm.

How could I ever learn fine manners and refinement?

When Mom and Dad found me, I was hauling bricks at a construction site to pay for school.

Mom ran over, wrapped me in her arms, and sobbed. Dad stood beside us, eyes rimmed red.

I thought the bitter years were ending, and the sweet ones were finally beginning.

Instead, I failed the vote before the banquet. Every single year.

Every year, I was locked out of my own home.

“That’s enough!”

Mom hurried over to smooth things over. “Jojo is still learning. Don’t push her.”

She reached for my hand. Then her gaze dropped to my thin, rough, work-stained fingers, and she drew it back.

“Jojo, your brother is right though. You really ought to learn from Pearl.”

Pearl ducked her head, blushing sweetly.

She wore a princess dress, her skin flawless, her chestnut hair gleaming. Every inch the pampered heiress.

But before I turned five, I had been this family’s pearl too.

In memories gone soft at the edges, the whole family circled me and promised I would always be their little princess.

My eyes stung, and I bowed my head.

Grandma tapped my back sharply with her cane, her tone sharp with displeasure.

“Mind your posture! Throwing a fit over such trivial matters shows none of a Sherman’s composure.”

“I only turned a blind eye to your dyed hair today out of mercy.”

Aunt chimed in, sour. “And those hands are no better. Grimy and rough. How many years since they’ve seen soap?”

The household staff around us covered their mouths and snickered.

Miles tipped his chin toward my clothes, disgust written across his face.

“And what is that out-of-season garment you’re wearing? Anyone seeing you might mistake you for one of the maids.”

I gripped the hem of my dress tight.

I had bought it with half a year’s wages, just so I could look half-presentable in front of my own family.

I glanced toward Mom and Dad, the only two who had not spoken.

They opened their mouths as if to say something, then looked away.

There was a time their criticism would have cut me open.

I dyed my hair, over and over.

I disinfected my hands, again and again.

I practiced my posture, year after year.

The lights on the voting panel still glowed.

Seven years, and every one of them short by a single vote.

A heavy weariness washed over me.