They Told Everyone I Was Adopted, I Was Their Real Daughter Chapter 04
That afternoon, I took a cab to my school for the security clearance interview. My parents still hadn’t shown up.
I called them, frantic. “Mom, Dad, where are you? The interview is starting soon.”
Dad answered. “Gia, we’re busy right now. We’re picking out a puppy for Zoe. She’s been begging for one.”
“But—”
“Dad! Stop talking! Look how cute this Samoyed is!”
The call died.
I stood at the gate, phone in hand, my chest hollow.
My homeroom teacher kept glancing at me.
I swallowed my pride and explained everything to the officer.
He was quiet for a moment, then pulled out a letter of recommendation from my university advisor.
“Your professor already explained your situation. Your homeroom teacher can handle the rest. Don’t worry.”
I stared at that thin letter. My eyes burned.
The teacher placed a hand on my shoulder. “Good girl. Stay the course.”
I went home—ready to feel something good for once. I pushed open the door and everything froze.
My suitcase was upside down, clothes all over the floor. My admission letter was under Zoe’s foot. She had workmen in there, clearing out my things.
She looked at me, bored. “This is going to be my pet room now.”
The workers froze, embarrassed.
Mom and Dad came through the door, holding the new puppy.
I turned to them. “Why?”
Mom’s voice was flat. “You’re going off to work soon. This room will just sit empty. It makes perfect sense to give it to the dog.”
Perfect sense. In their eyes, I didn’t even rank above a dog they’d just brought home.
Dad pointed to the balcony. “You’re only here a few more days anyway. Just clear out the balcony—it’ll do.”
I took a breath, shoved Zoe aside, and grabbed my trampled admission letter.
She shrieked. “Gia! You pushed me!”
Dad’s face went dark. “Apologize to your sister! Right now!”
I looked at them, eyes burning. “Sometimes I wish I weren’t your daughter.”
Mom clutched her chest. “It’s nothing—why are you so dramatic? After everything I’ve done for you—”
Dad patted her back. “Gia. Apologize to your mother.”
Zoe, still fuming, kicked a cup across the floor. The puppy startled and raked its claws down my thigh. I bit back a yelp.
I didn’t argue. I picked up the letter, its creases mirroring the years of hurt I’d carried, and walked out.
Behind me, Mom’s shouts echoed.
I went to the hospital, got treated, then went to the county clerk’s office with my ID and the official family documents I’d already obtained. I separated my records from theirs.
I stared at the new documents in my hands. From now on, I wouldn’t have to accommodate Zoe’s every whim, wouldn’t have to beg for love that would never come.
At the airport, my phone buzzed.
Zoe: [You’d better not come back.]
I typed back.
Gia: [Okay.]
The plane lifted off, and I watched my hometown shrink beneath me. The chains I’d carried for more than a decade fell away. I felt light as air.
