Tate could not for the life of him believe who he was seeing at his front the door and that person was not welcome at his house at all. It was none other than his aunt Becky, who made it clear to Tate long ago that he was a bastard and not part of them.
But here she was at his front door where Tate was sure that she knew that she was not welcome at his home at all yet she still chose to come. Tate leaned his back at the frame of his door and looked at a woman he would have called Aunt Becky, if she had tried to be an aunty to him and not shunned him the day that he was born.
“Good morning Tate and—“
“What do you want Becky?” He asked her plain and simple without any warmth in his voice, there was no ways that he was going to be kind to a woman who never showed him any kindness, the woma
