Page 124 of Trailer Park Billionaire

Wearing beige. It looks like they swapped orange for beige. They must’ve figured depression pairs better with earth tones.

She’s smaller than I remember. Or maybe the jumpsuit just makes her seem that way. Her hair is tied back, her face bare of the usual lipstick and mascara.

When she sees us, she stops.

Her face crumples.

I rise before she can take another step, and then I’m moving, fast, arms outstretched, breath caught. We collide in the middle of the room. Her arms wrap around me like we haven’t seen each other in decades. She’s trembling.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” she whispers.

I choke out a laugh that’s halfway to a sob. “Of course I came. I promised.”

When she notices Ben join us quietly, she pulls him into the hug as well. Then she lets out a tiny, broken laugh, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says.

Ben clears his throat. His eyes are watery too. “We brought muffins,” he says and hands her the bag.

She laughs again, properly this time, then pulls away, sniffling as she wipes her face. “You probably have questions.”

My knees barely hold as I make my way to the seat. All of us sit down slowly. “Just one,” I say carefully. “What’s your name?”

She hesitates. Her expression shifts—like something breaking free inside her. “Bea. Bea Rita Beck.”

I nod. Slowly. “I figured,” I say. But hearing it still feels like a chisel splitting marble, revealing a wound I had carved around for years.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I should’ve told you sooner. I was… scared. And stupid.”

“No,” I whisper. “Well, yes. You probably should have. But it’s okay. You can tell me now. Tell me all of it.”

And so she does.

She tells me about the drugs. The first high after I was born. The shame. The nights she curled up in bed thinking if she just stayed still long enough, the hunger in her veins would pass. She tells me about my dad—how he tried to save her. How Grandpa tried.

“I thought I was saving you by leaving,” she says. “I told myself that lie so many times I almost believed it.”

She tells me about her first overdose, and about her second. Then she tells me about a friend she made, and about her overdose. A girl named Elaine who used to sing songs from The Specials, and who brought her soup from the shelter. She talks about how Elaine died in a motel bathtub while she was out attempting to score.

“That was my wake-up call,” she says quietly. “I went cold turkey after that. Then I stole her name.”

Elaine Hyde. No priors. No controversial past. No family who might come looking for her. Just a clean slate and the terrifying freedom of starting over.

“I got a job cleaning at a museum. I had tried to keep tabs on you three back home all along. I was still struggling, but it went reasonably well for a while. At least it did until your father died… which is when I relapsed,” she admits, shame washing over her face. “He was the love of my life, Helena. And when I heard… I just—I broke.”

Ben keeps pulling tissues from his pockets.

“I contacted your grandfather. Your dad and him had told you I was dead because they figured it was the best for you. And I think they were right. I had put them in an impossible position, but both of them did their best to protect you, to do what I couldn’t.” She sobs through trying to keep it together. “Hehelped me too. Helped me enroll in a university program. I had to lie, and claw my way into it, but I did get accepted.”

All I can do is stare at her and listen.

“I didn’t know at the time, but I think he chose an art program on purpose. He was hoping you’d go the same route eventually. And you did.”

My grandpa’s face appears once more before my eyes, the pain on it visible. But maybe it wasn’t pain after all. Maybe it was just a last attempt to tell me what he had been hiding. I don’t blame him. He tried to do what he thought was best. He always did.

“So, I’d sleep three or four hours a night and cleaned stairwells between lectures,” she continues. “And I never stopped thinking about you.”

I bite my lip so hard it almost starts bleeding. Ben grips my hand.