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My social psychology professor gave us a simple assignment: text the words I love you to the family member we were closest to, then record their first reaction. My parents had died seven years earlier. With no one else to text, I sent the message to Sebastian Whitmore, my father's younger brother and the man the court had once appointed as my temporary guardian. The typing bubble appeared and disappeared all night. At two in the morning, his answer finally came. [Claire, don't confuse dependence with love. Whatever exists between us can never cross that line.] The next day, he stripped away every privilege he had ever given me, disconnected our private line, and ordered his assistant, Ryan, to stop reporting anything about me. When I went to Whitmore Group in Lower Manhattan, security blocked me at the revolving doors. "Mr. Whitmore's exact words were that we could let anyone walk in tonight, but not you." After that, whenever Sebastian saw me at a party or in a hallway, he left first. He kept it up for six months. Then a doctor told me an aggressive, high-grade glioma was growing inside my brain. It was pressing into the part that held language and memory, and the time I had left might be just long enough for one goodbye. For a school exercise, we were told to text our parents, I love you. Both of my parents were gone. So I used the exercise as an excuse to text Sebastian Whitmore, my paternal uncle, who had taken me in after I lost them. He'd always just been Uncle Sebastian to me. Claire: [I love you.] For a long time, the typing indicator appeared and disappeared on my screen. But no message came. Two hours later, he finally replied. Sebastian: [Don't get any ideas you shouldn't have.] After that, Sebastian took back every bit of affection he had ever shown me. He blocked my number. He told his aide that he no longer wanted updates about me. Security at Whitmore Group even stopped me at the entrance. "Mr. Whitmore said you're not allowed inside. Same
