They Valued a Guinea Pig More Than Me, So I Left Chapter 09
Later, my dad put out a statement through the company’s official account.
Basically, we’re a happy family. My blog was just a persona.
But he got fact-checked fast-because he couldn’t produce a single family photo with me in it.
And that wasn’t all.
My middle school classmates found the thread.
They commented for real.
“Wait. Elara is actually Derek Vance’s sister? Then why wouldn’t he even give her an autograph?”
“Exactly. We thought she was lying. We made fun of her for years.”
My brother’s accounts got flooded.
Ethan’s classmates spoke up too.
“So she’s not the driver’s daughter?”
“At the awards ceremony, he literally said she was the housekeeper. I can’t believe that’s his real
sister.”
The comments were a wildfire.
Old evidence kept surfacing, piece by piece, weaving into a net they couldn’t escape.
All their press releases and pretty statements fell apart.
The backlash lasted two full weeks.
Then something strange happened.
They finally went and actually read my blog.
I don’t know which post got them. Maybe all of them.
Aria reached out first.
She sent me a long private message. Said she hadn’t known better back then. Said she’d cried all night reading my blog. Her nineteenth birthday was coming up. Could I come to her party?
“Elara,” she wrote, “I really want you there this time. I’ll save you the best seat.”
I wrote back. “No thanks. Your parties are for family. I’m not family.”
My brother sent me a package.
I opened the box. Inside were autographed photos. Every single one said “To Elara.”
There was a note too. “I’m sorry about before. Love, your brother.”
I looked at those photos. I remembered all those years of being laughed at. I remembered the photo on his desk that said “To Snowball.”
Finally, after all this time, I was getting the same treatment as the neighbor’s dog.
I put the photos in my bottom drawer. I didn’t display them.
Ethan sent an email. The language was as precise as one of his
papers.
He said he’d reflected. He acknowledged his mistakes. He formally invited me to his research presentation next month. “As family,” he wrote. “Front row.”
I replied: “I’m just a driver’s daughter. I’ll pass.”
My mom started calling every day.
Not with orders this time. Small, careful questions. Did you eat? Is it cold? Wear a coat.
She even offered to buy me an apartment. “Somewhere close to us,” she said. “So we can look out
for each other.”
My dad got on the phone too. His voice was soft-I’d never heard it like that. “Elara, Daddy was wrong. You’re a good girl. Daddy knows that now.”
I listened to all of it. I didn’t argue.
But the place in my chest that had cracked open had already healed over. Scarred. Numb. Not
hurting, not warm.
I said no to all of them.
Not because I was still angry. Because I knew the truth.
They weren’t sorry. They were scared of losing their shine.
Reaching out to me was just the cheapest way to fix their image.
They didn’t even have to do anything. All I had to do was nod and say “It’s in the past,” and everything would go back to normal.
But I wasn’t going to sacrifice myself anymore.
