On my eighteenth birthday, I opened my Stanford acceptance letter—and my dad said, “Give it to Jake. You can take out loans.”

with Dad and Jake.

I was behind the café counter when they walked in.

Denise stared at the polished floors, the framed lease certificates, and the busy tables. Then her eyes landed on me.

“So it’s true,” she said.

Dad looked stunned. “Hannah, why didn’t you tell us?”

I wiped my hands on my apron. “Because you threw me out.”

Jake scoffed. “Don’t be dramatic.continue reading …