My stepmother drugged me, intending to ruin my innocence, even going as far as to hire someone to film the entire ordeal.
But what kind of expression would she have if she found out that the one she had set up was her own biological daughter?
…
I became an orphan when I was five.
But I wasn’t an orphan in the true sense of the word.
Because my parents were still alive—they had simply divorced, and neither wanted to take me in.
I vaguely remember it was a bright, sunny day when they had an explosive argument at City Hall. The cause? Neither of them wanted me, the unwanted burden.
My mom gritted her teeth, “This is your Winters family's blood. You don't want her? Well, I’m telling you, I won’t let this child ruin my life. Take her away, now.”
My dad cursed right back, “I don't want this troublemaker either. If you hadn't been unable to have a son, would we be at this point? This is all your fault.”
Stuck in the middle, I cried desperately.
I was still too young to understand the meaning behind their words, but I knew one thing for sure—from that moment on, I was going to have neither a dad nor a mom.
In the end, it was my grandmother who took me in, pitying my situation. Legally, I ended up living with my dad.
On the day they finalized their divorce, they acted like birds released from their cages, happily rushing toward their new lives, neither of them sparing me even a glance.
Since I could remember, there had never been any peace in this family.
My grandmother took me in and raised me until I was fourteen, and then I went to live with my dad.
I had grown used to life in the small mountain village. When my grandmother fell ill and was bedridden, I cried and knelt beside her, holding her hand tightly.
“Grandma, you're all I have left. Please don't leave me. You can’t abandon me.”
At that time, my grandmother was so frail, nothing but skin and bones, unable to even sit up. But despite this, she still reached out with trembling hands to touch my face, then pulled out a small, wrapped-up wallet from beneath her pillow.
She called it a wallet, but it was nothing more than a tattered piece of green cloth.
With all her strength, she pressed it into my hand and spoke in broken sentences, “Wendy, I know you’re a good girl. Take this money and go to the city to find your dad. Always remember, you are his daughter. As long as you’re under eighteen, he’s obligated to take care of you.”
I cried until I could hardly breathe, shaking my head violently. “No, Grandma, I won’t leave. I’ll stay with you. I’ll stay with you.”
“Be good. Live a good life.”
These were my grandmother's last words to me.
I watched helplessly as the woman who had cared for me for over ten years breathed her last right before my eyes.
Her health had never been good. For so many years, she had worked hard to raise me, often walking up the mountain roads for hours to sell vegetables from her garden at the town market.
One cent, two cents, five cents, a dollar.
Scattered bits of loose change wrapped in the small green cloth—this was the last gift my grandmother gave me, and it was all the love she had left.
From that day on, I lost the last person who had ever truly loved me in this world.
Grandma passed in the afternoon, but it wasn’t until the next morning that my real father finally showed up.
He drove up in a sleek black car I didn’t recognize, stopping at the entrance of the village, disdainfully eyeing our old, dilapidated wooden house. The roof tiles kept falling off, and the entire place looked like it could collapse at any moment.
My dad covered his nose and stepped inside, giving the surroundings a disgusted glance before his eyes finally settled on me.
“Come with me.”
I had cried all night, my eyes burning, feeling as if they were about to go blind.
