Just about nine months later, on May 1st 1992, Amity Rose Atwood, daughter of Conrad and Cynthia Atwood, was born into the world. There was much that my mother had taught me during her pregnancy. Things of a practical nature, regarding our family secrets and how to keep us hidden from the world right out in the open, but away from prying eyes. I finally learned how my grandfather, not a brilliant inventor but a brilliant businessman, had figured out how to set up corporate proxies, little more than shell corporations, which had ties to our home town. These tiny corporations were responsible for ensuring all manner of interaction for the Atwood family- mail, groceries, security, investment banking, financial asset control and accounting and all manner of other services that most people use on a regular basis- were kept running on a pretty much automated level. We had an estate manager, whom we had never met face to face, who kept the world at large away from us and us away from it. We could always interact with the outside world to our heart’s content, but we never had to worry about doing so on anyone else’s terms but our own. We could travel the globe for years on end and never be met with so much as a single bill. If we needed anything, and I literally do mean anything, all we had to do was dial a certain number and give our instructions. Very few questions were ever asked, and none of them were of a personal nature. From that point onward, everything else would be taken care of and we could simply do as we pleased without another thought.
Some might see that as grossly privileged- and they’d be right. But it was the only life we knew and it had been set up that way specifically because of how we, as a family, lived. We learned to guard our family’s secrecy so very closely at an early age that we wouldn’t imagine abusing the system that had been put in place for us. We never broke the law. We never lorded our wealth over anyone. We lived quietly and humbly. We did not, by any stretch of the imagination, do anything “weird.” To do so would have garnered unwanted attention and prying eyes. To live outrageously or indulgently would have tongues wagging. So we rarely made use of The System (as we called it) in any way other than for our normal needs.
Except on rare and unique occasions, like an impending birth.
When mother admitted to me that she was pregnant, that began my education of how The System worked and how to use it. Together, we went through the steps we knew would be necessary to ensure that our child would be given the right kind of attention WITHOUT getting any kind of undue attention. Within days, county and court records of various types were slightly altered. Without ever having had an actual ceremony, Cynthia (my mother’s middle name) and Conrad Atwood were a happily married couple who’d been gifted with the Atwood Estate Manor as a wedding present, where we could start a new family. The implication was that I was the heir of a sizeable estate but not yet entitled to a penny of it until I had a family of my own to look after. Meanwhile, “Cynthia” Atwood, an older woman who had won my affections quite by accident and without intent, had signed a pre-nuptial agreement which left her with only the clothes on her back should we divorce and a massive inheritance should I live past the age of 60. The thinking here was clear: it was assumed that, being an older woman, “Cynthia” Atwood would be too old to bear children and, should I die shortly after turning 60, she’d also be too advanced in years to enjoy any ill-gotten wealth, provided that she outlived me.
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