After the real daughter died, the
wealthy parents who pretended to
be poor regretted it
Chapter 1
New Year’s Eve. My twentieth birthday, and
my folks left me a hard–boiled egg as a “gift”
before heading off to their oh–so–important
overtime. Yeah, right.
I snuck out, craving something besides
ramen, and decided to splurge on a real
birthday dinner. That’s when I saw them.
They were celebrating some other girl’s
birthday. A real bash. They’d rented out “The
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Ivy,” the fanciest restaurant in town. Like,
limo–and–chauffeur fancy.
They handed her a key to a house. Like, a
freaking mansion. And a pink Porsche. And a
debit card with, I swear, at least ten grand on
- it.
Dad ruffled her hair, beaming. “That’s my girl. Graduate college, and the whole company is
yours, kiddo.”
Mom hugged her, tears in her eyes. “Sweetheart, even if you’re not our biological daughter, we’ll love you forever. More than
our own. You deserve the best.”
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I tried to get closer, but a bodyguard, the kind
who looked like he ate cinder blocks for
breakfast, roughed me up and tossed me out
on the street.
The stupid egg, the only thing they gave me, rolled onto the sidewalk and got crushed under someone’s heel. It felt like they were crushing my entire life. The twisted joke of a family I thought I had.
I stumbled to my feet, covered in grime and feeling like roadkill.
I wanted to yell at them, but their next words felt like a punch to the gut. I couldn’t even croak out “Mom,” “Dad.” My voice just died.
Join the bookshelf
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My parents hugged the girl and looked over at
me, this look of pure, cold scorn on their
faces.
“Tiffany, look at that little beggar. If you don’t
work hard, you’ll end up just like her.”
“That’s right, some trailer trash who can only
dream of being you.” Mom chimed in.
They didn’t even recognize me, just stood
there laughing.
Tiffany, this snobby girl from my college, saw me. She gave me this look, like she was both
mocking and pitying me, then snuggled up to my folks, all “Daddy,” this, “Mommy,” that.
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“You don’t have to worry, Mom and Dad, I’ll
be the daughter you always wanted. Your
little princess.”
Little beggar.
Trailer trash.
It all hit way too hard.
I grabbed the pulverized egg, shoved it in my mouth, and swallowed it down, bits of shell
and grit and all. Then I turned and ran.
The walk home felt like climbing Everest in flip–flops.
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Tears streamed down my face, soaking my
clothes.
Ever since I was born, my house was a dump.
We never had a TV, a fridge or even decent
furniture. My folks always said that they had
no money. I hated the fact that my parents
worked so hard yet had nothing.
Dad worked construction, always came home
with cuts and bruises. Once, he dropped
something heavy on his arm, it swelled up
purple and blue. I hid in a corner and cried so
hard I nearly choked. That’s when I started
acting older than I was.
In elementary school, we had to borrow
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money for my tuition. I snuck out at night and
picked up nails at construction sites and sold
them to help out, once got caught by the
foreman and beat half to death.
The dolls I wanted sat on the shelves and
taunted me, taunting me with beauty I could
never possess. It was like, if I just looked at
them long enough, I owned them.
In college, I worked my tail off to put myself
through it, wearing the same few outfits for
years. I even started scavenging fabric scraps
from clothing factories, sewing them into
clothes myself. I got used to the stares, the
snickers.
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When I saw a guy I liked, I had to hide. Scared
my very existence would taint him.
All because my folks were always moaning
and groaning, kneeling in front of me, and
telling me how bad they felt.
“Honey, we are so poor, it is all our fault!”
But now I get it. It was all a big, fat, dramatic performance.
The parents I respected most were actually rich big shots, giving me a life of misery while spoiling their gold digger of a fake daughter.
I let out a bitter laugh, ripped the dirty clothes off, and took a shower.
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My folks came home late. They thought I was
asleep, tiptoed in, then jumped when they
saw me sitting in the living room.
“Sarah, what are you doing up so late?” Mom
sat down next to me, looking all concerned.
I played it cool. “Hey, Happy New Year, how
come you are working so late? I was waiting
for you to get back.”
They exchanged a nervous look, then Dad
plunked a grocery bag on the table, giving me
his best “good ol‘ Dad” smile.
“Sarah, perfect timing! I brought home a
cake. We can celebrate your birthday.”
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I gave them a blank stare, noticing their
complexions were sallow and that their new
designer clothes had been traded back for
beat–up work clothes.
Dad pulled a small, smushed cake covered in dirt from the grocery bag of rotten
vegetables.
“Honey, the cake got damaged a little bit, but it’s still good, go ahead.”
In the past, I would have been happy if I even got an egg as a birthday present. If I got a
cake, even one that they found in the trash, I would have been so happy.
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But now, the thought of them having
something so good to eat with Tiffany and
then grabbing this off the floor for me made
my stomach turn.
My body shook with anger and hurt.
I pushed the cake away.
“Dad, you eat it. You and Mom deserve
something nice. You haven’t had a decent
meal in your life. The cake should be for you
guys.”
“Especially Mom, who had to go through 9
months to have me, my birthday should be
her special day as well.”
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They looked at each other, but I saw the
disgust and dislike in their eyes.
I felt even worse for myself.
My own parents were giving me a piece of
food that fell on the ground while giving a
nine–layer cake to their adopted daughter.
Dad teared up, his voice breaking.
“I’m sorry, honey. I just can’t give you the
birthday that you deserve.”
Mom took his hand and started crying.
“It’s okay, honey, you already did your best.”
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They were giving me the routine again, so I
grabbed the cake and started shoving it in my
mouth, dirt and all.
“Mom and Dad, the cake is good.”
As I said this, I didn’t let a single tear fall.
They felt relieved when they saw me eat the
cake and started smiling.
“Our daughter is all grown up.”
I found that so ridiculous as I listened to
those words.
Dad stared at me and saw that I was bruised.
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“What happened to your face? Did somebody
hit you?”
“Who the hell would hit my daughter? I’m
going to kill them!”
Dad rolled up his sleeves, and I remembered
the time I had been bullied as a kid.
I wanted to tell him that he already knew the
person who did it.
