In Portland, Oregon, at 7:44 p.m. on October 5th, 1982, Angeline Teller held her stomach with one hand and dialed her physician's number on her home phone with the other, bent over the wooden chair at her kitchen table. A sharp pain had suddenly shot through her abdomen, and spread through her stomach and made her feel sick that morning. It had progressively gotten worse, until finally she could hardly stand from the pain.

It was the first sign that she was pregnant. She knew that keeping the kid was a bad idea, due to her line of work. For the right price, she was the best company in all of Oregon. And medical bills . . . God, she lost sleep just thinking about it. But she kept her baby, and had a daughter.

She would never worry about the cost of feeding another mouth, nor would she ever hold her child. Angeline died of complications during birth on June 29th, 1983.

I know what you're thinking. No, I'm not her kid. But I know for a fact who that kid is; my very best friend in the whole world, Jane Elizabeth Teller. And she's my cousin. Sort of. It's really, really complicated.

When I was born, I was given up for adoption. At two I was placed with the Green family, in Portland. This was in 1982. In 1988, Mr. and Mrs. Green had a child of their own, so they put me back in the system. I remained in a girls' home for three years, then a nice family by the name of Piermont and Mary Winston came along and adopted me. The pair had a son of their own named Harry, but we just called him Opie.

Don't ask me why they adopted me. I honestly don't know, and will never know, because I'm not going to question the people who gave me a home when I needed it. You know, don't look a gift horse in the mouth and such.

So I grew up with Opie and our best friend Jackson Teller. Which is how I came to know Jane. I could shorten all this down and put it in this one chapter, but you'd have a LOT of questions, and plus I'd rather just tell the story the right way. This is just sort of an introduction, so you won't be confused when I start the actual story.

Haha. I'm telling the story. I'm a TELLER. You see what I did there? Eh? Eh?

Anyway, I'll stop with the jokes. Even if it was punny.

I crack myself up sometimes.

Anyway. In 1994, Mary and Piney divorced. Mary took Ope and me with her, thinking we would just shut up and sit down like good little children. Opie was sixteen and I was fourteen, and see, that just wasn't gelling with us very well. But this was the woman that gave me a home, and she wanted me with her, so I stayed. Opie didn't. And I haven't seen him since the night he fled out our bedroom window in the summer of 1994.

As a matter of fact I haven't talked to any of them since the summer of 1994. Not Jackson or Opie or Jane.

Oh yeah. By the way, Piney and his best friend John (Jax's father and Jane's uncle) founded a motorcycle club called the Sons of Anarchy. I wasn't stupid; the reason Mary left was because she didn't want Ope and me involved with the club.

It was too late; at the age of fourteen, I could shoot anything with a trigger, identify different models of motorcycles by the tail lights, and knew how to lie very, very well. Gemma made sure of that. Gemma Teller was John's wife, and my aunt for all intents and purposes.

Now, you may be wondering why I'm going all the way back to explain all this shit to you. It's because I'm going all the way back to Charming, California. I'm facing my old demons, my old friends, my old family. Why? Simply because I'm sick of not knowing. And I may miss everyone, just a tiny little bit.

Oh, I'm Fawn Winston. You might as well get comfortable; this is a long, long story, and you're going to be hearing a lot more out of me.