My stepmother called at 11:47 p.m. on the first night in the beach house I bought with my own money and told me she and my father were moving in the next day, that they were taking the master suite, that her daughter would get the best ocean-view room – Reading Times

The ocean was incredibly loud that first night, sounding like the steady breathing of the earth beneath my windows. I had left all the doors open to enjoy the salt air and the sound of the Pacific.

The house was perched high on the cliffs of Monterey Bay with a white exterior and a cedar roof. It featured long bands of glass facing west and a terrace wide enough for grand outdoor dinners.

There were six bedrooms and a kitchen made of pale stone with custom brass fixtures. The staircase curved gently upward in a way that looked expensive without appearing to try too hard.

Every dollar used to purchase that home belonged to me, which meant more than the five million dollar price tag. I was the daughter of a woman named Geneva who clipped coupons and managed a strict budget for every holiday.