Ten Years of Lies, I Uncovered Their Secret

Ever since I turned eighteen, I've fallen into a dead sleep for exactly twenty four hours on my birthday every single year. My parents said I had a rare neurological sleep disorder that flared up on specific dates. I believed it for ten whole years. Ten years of medication, ten years of doctor visits, ten years of endless medical tests. Every time I woke up, my family would be gathered around my bed. A half-eaten birthday cake would still be sitting on the table, and Mom, eyes red from crying, would softly say, "You fell asleep again." I cried over it before too. Thought life was just unfair. But this year was different. Because three days ago, while sorting through my grandmother's belongings after her death, I found an envelope. Inside was a trust document and a photograph from ten years ago. The photo showed my eighteenth birthday party. ***** Pink balloons, a buttercream cake, colorful streamers everywhere. In the center of the photo sat a girl with her eyes closed, head tilted slightly to the side like she'd fallen asleep. That girl was me. On the back of the photo, someone had written the date in pencil. It was the exact day of my eighteenth birthday. But that wasn't what made my skin crawl. It was another detail in the picture. My eyes were closed, and someone was holding up my right hand. My fingertips were stained red with ink. Under my hand was a stack of documents spread across the table. At the top of the first page were four bold words: TRUST AGREEMENT. My breathing stopped. My hands started shaking uncontrollably. I ripped open the brown envelope so fast I nearly tore the papers inside. It was a complete photocopy of the trust contract, over twenty pages long. I flipped through it page by page. The further I read, the harder my hands trembled, the harder my eyes burned. Settlor: Jane Ross My grandmother. Beneficiary: Stella Ross Me. Trust Assets: $20,000,000 I stared at that number for a full minute. Twenty million. My grandmother had established a twenty million trust fund for me when I turned eighteen. And I had never known. Not once in the past ten years had anyone told me. And then there was that photo. Me with my eyes closed, someone pressing my finger onto paperwork. That wasn't for signing the trust agreement. My grandmother was the settlor. I didn't need to sign anything. Which meant the document I'd pressed my fingerprint onto was something else entirely. My fingers moved across the attachment pages near the end of the contract. Finally, I found it. Appendix Three: Authorization Form for Fund Withdrawal. It required the beneficiary's signature and fingerprint. I jerked my head up and looked at the photo again. Everyone in the picture was smiling. My dad, mom, brother and sister in law. Every single one of them looked happy. And me? Eyes closed, and completely unaware. As I stared at those smiling faces, a chill crawled up my spine, sharp enough to make my scalp prickle. For ten years, every birthday, I'd black out for twenty four hours. And every birthday, someone had been taking my hand and pressing my fingerprint onto documents. I thought I was sick. But what if I wasn't? My phone suddenly rang. It was my mom, Amy Halls. "Stella, your birthday's the day after tomorrow. We're celebrating at home this year. Your brother and his wife are both coming back. I'm making your favorite ribs. Oh, and don't forget your medicine this time, okay? We really can't have you collapsing again this year." Her voice was gentle and caring. Exactly the same as every phone call she'd made over the past decade. I tightened my grip on the photograph so hard my nails dug into my palm. "Okay, Mom. I'll take the medicine on time." After hanging up, I sat alone in Grandma's room for a long time. Outside the window, the sky slowly darkened. The faint scent of jasmine drifted quietly through the air. Eventually, I stood up, carefully tucking the photo and trust documents into my bag. Then I picked up the newly opened bottle of anti narcolepsy medication from the coffee table and walked out the door. I was going to do something. Something I should've done ten years ago. I was going to have the pills tested.