The results of my pre-employment physical finally came back. Under "Blood Type," it clearly stated: O. I dug out my birth certificate and medical records from when I was a kid. There it was in black and white: Type B. I called my mom, and she just laughed it off. "Oh, the person who filled out the paperwork back then probably just made a typo. It's no big deal." I wasn't convinced. I went to a different hospital and paid for another blood test. Still Type O. My dad is Type A. My mom is Type B. My high school biology teacher taught us that this specific combination can produce a Type O child, but it’s incredibly rare. Both parents must carry the recessive O gene. I stood in front of my mom holding both lab reports. She took them and glanced at the paper. But her eyes didn't stay on the results. They immediately darted past me, looking over my shoulder. She was checking to see if I had brought anyone home with me. A sudden, icy chill shot up my spine. "Mom, what are you looking at?" She shoved the reports back into my hands, her tone a little too cheerful, a little too forced. "Just looking to see if you finally brought a boyfriend home, that's all!" She laughed and turned to walk into the kitchen. But I saw her hand gripping the doorframe. Her knuckles were bone white. The smell of cooking oil and garlic began drifting from the kitchen. My mom, Martha’s, voice carried over the roar of the exhaust fan. "Chloe, don't just stand there spacing out! Go tell your sister dinner is ready." I folded the medical reports, shoved them deep into my purse, walked upstairs, and knocked on Mia's door. "Mia, dinner." "Yeah, yeah, hold on a sec!" I could hear the loud, obnoxious sound of TikTok videos blasting from inside. I stood in the hallway. On my left was Mia's room. A spacious master suite, south-facing, with a custom bay window covered in plush pink cushions. On my right was my room. Barely eighty square feet. It used to be a storage closet. The single tiny window faced the brick wall of the neighbor's house. It had been this way since we were kids. I was used to it. At the dinner table, the massive plate of BBQ ribs was placed directly in front of Mia. In front of me was a small plate of cheap, stir-fried potatoes. Mia picked up a rib, chewed it twice, and immediately frowned in disgust. "Mom, these ribs are super tough today." "I left the heat on too high," Mom replied instantly, eager to please. "I'll slow-roast them longer for you next time." My dad, Frank, sat at the head of the table, his chopsticks moving rhythmically between the meat and the side dishes. I kept my head down, mechanically shoveling rice into my mouth. My brain was screaming, completely consumed by those two blood test reports. Type O. Both tests said Type O. I swallowed a mouthful of rice and forced my voice to sound as casual as possible. "Dad, you're Type A, right?" His chopsticks stopped in mid-air. It was a fraction of a second. If I hadn't been staring directly at his hand, I never would have noticed. "Yeah, Type A." "Can a Type A and a Type B have a Type O child?" The dinner table went completely dead silent for two seconds. "Of course they can!" Mom jumped in, answering before he could. "Anything is possible. Stop reading all that nonsense on the internet." "But my biology teacher said—" "Are teachers always right?" Mom slammed her chopsticks down, flashing a perfectly natural smile. "Look at the Johnsons next door. Both parents have brown eyes, and their kid has blue eyes! Genetics are crazy, you can't predict them." Having delivered her expert scientific analysis, she picked up a prime, meaty rib and dropped it onto Mia's plate. "Eat up, Mia. The cafeteria food at your college is absolute garbage. You need the protein." Mia was a senior at a private university. Her tuition was forty thousand dollars a year. Adding in her lavish living expenses, she easily burned through six grand a month. As for me? I had been working a corporate job for three years. I made around $4,000 a month, and every single month, I was forced to transfer $2,500 of it directly to my mom. "The household expenses are high, and your sister is still in school. As the older sister, it's your duty to shoulder the burden." Those were my mom's exact words. And I had shouldered that burden for three grueling years. But today, I suddenly desperately wanted to know one thing. What exactly was I to this family? After dinner, I retreated to my eighty-square-foot closet, locked the door, and opened Google on my phone. Can a Type A and Type B parent have a Type O child? A flood of results popped up. Most medical articles stated: Yes, but the probability is low. Both parents must carry the recessive 'O' allele for it to happen. So... it was possible. I almost let out a sigh of relief. But then I clicked to the second page of results. A bolded thread title on a forum stabbed me right in the eye. Mismatched blood types don't necessarily prove anything, but if your mother's very first reaction is to check if anyone followed you home— The top comment underneath only had one sentence: Then she's hiding a massive, guilty secret. I dropped my phone face-down onto my mattress. I stared up at the jagged crack in the ceiling, completely paralyzed. That crack had been there for as long as I could remember. Eighteen years. My mom had sworn she would fix it, but she never did. Not once. Meanwhile, the expensive wallpaper in Mia's bedroom had been replaced three times. The next day at work, the events of last night were still looping violently in my head. The HR rep at my new company handed me my ID badge. "Chloe, Administration Department. You have a 90-day probationary period." I took the badge. It was my first day at a new job. During lunch, my new coworker, Sarah, sat down across from me in the breakroom. "Chloe, right? I'm in the cubicle next to yours. Let me know if you need anything." She had a bright, infectious laugh, her eyes crinkling happily. I nodded, tapping my paper cup against hers. "Are you from around here?" she asked. "Yeah, born and raised." "Oh, that's awesome! Living at home must save you a ton on rent." I didn't respond. Save on rent. I handed over $2,500 a month. I could rent a luxury one-bedroom apartment in the city for less than what I paid to live in a closet. In the afternoon, my mom sent me a text. "When are you transferring this month's money? Your sister needs to sign up for a GRE prep course next semester. It's two grand." I stared at the glowing screen. Two grand. Last winter, I wanted to take a specialized accounting certification course to boost my resume. It was $500. My mom screamed at me for half an hour. "Why the hell are you wasting money on that garbage? You're not smart enough for school anyway!" I typed out two words: "Got it." And hit send. Then, I opened a new browser tab. Search query: How to get a private DNA paternity test. The results showed that for a non-legal, personal knowledge test, you only needed to mail in biological samples. Hair follicles, nail clippings, cheek swabs. All acceptable. The parties being tested didn't even need to be present. Cost: Around $150 to $300. I checked my bank app. After deducting my monthly "tribute" of $2,500 and my bare-bones living expenses, my total life savings sat at exactly $15,000. That $15,000 was the result of three years of eating instant ramen for lunch, walking home in the freezing rain to save bus fare, and only buying clothes off the clearance rack once a year. Every single dollar was scraped together with blood and sweat. My entire life savings from three years of grinding... wasn't even enough to cover three months of Mia's college tuition. On Saturday, I made up an excuse to leave the house. My mom was lounging on the sofa watching TV. She didn't even look up. "Where are you going?" "A coworker asked me to go to the mall." "Don't spend money. You barely make anything as it is." I didn't answer. I just put on my shoes and walked out the door. Before I left, I had discreetly pulled a few hairs with the root attached from my dad's hairbrush, sealing them in a plastic bag. I did the same with a few hairs I found on my mom's bath towel. Along with three of my own hairs, I sealed them all securely in my purse. The DNA testing clinic was located in a sleek, quiet office building downtown. The receptionist handed me a form to fill out. "Standard processing is seven to ten business days. Expedited processing is three days, but there's an additional rush fee." "Expedite it," I said. She glanced up at me. My expression must have looked terrifying. She didn't ask any questions. She just took my payment and the samples. When I walked out of the clinic, the sun was blindingly bright. I stood on the sidewalk, suddenly realizing I had absolutely no idea where to go. If the results came back normal, then my life would continue as this miserable, gray existence. But if they didn't... My phone buzzed. It was a voice memo from Mia. "Hey Chloe, can you buy me that new YSL lipstick while you're out? I've been wanting it forever. It's like forty-five bucks." Forty-five bucks. Last month, the soles of my only pair of work shoes completely wore through. I spent thirty dollars on a cheap replacement pair from Target, and I felt guilty about spending the money for an entire week. I typed back two words: "Sure thing." Then I opened Sephora's website and started browsing shades. For her. The three days waiting for the results felt like I was holding my breath underwater. On the surface, everything looked perfectly normal. Go to work. Come home. Cook dinner. Hand over my paycheck. But every single thing I had accepted as "normal" my entire life began to look incredibly, violently suspicious. Like the photo wall in the living room. I counted them. There were fourteen photos framed on the wall. Mia was the sole focus of eleven of them. I was in exactly two. They were group shots, and I was shoved to the very edge of the frame. The last one was a family portrait. It was taken when I was twelve, at a cheap mall photo studio with a fake blue-sky backdrop. Mia was sitting happily on my mom's lap, wearing an expensive, frilly pink dress. I was standing awkwardly next to my dad, wearing Mia's faded, outgrown winter coat from the year before. I stared at that photo for a very long time. In the picture, twelve-year-old me was smiling so hard it looked painful. On the third day, right around noon, my phone vibrated on my desk. A text from the clinic. I took my phone, locked myself in a bathroom stall, and opened the message. "Hello. Your DNA test results are ready. You may pick up the physical copy at our office, or opt to receive a secure electronic report via email." My thumb clicked "Electronic Report." The email arrived three minutes later. I opened the PDF and scrolled frantically, bypassing all the scientific jargon, straight to the conclusion on the final page. Probability of Paternity between Subject A (Chloe) and Subject B (Frank): 0%. The tested individuals do not share a biological parent-child relationship. Probability of Maternity between Subject A (Chloe) and Subject C (Martha): 0%. The tested individuals do not share a biological parent-child relationship. Two lines of text. I am not their daughter. Not related to either of them. The central AC in the office building hummed loudly. But I couldn't hear it anymore. The only sound in the world was my own heartbeat, slamming against my ribs like a sledgehammer against a brick wall. My fingernails dug so deeply into my palms they drew blood. After what felt like an eternity, I closed my email, opened my Excel spreadsheet, and continued doing data entry. Row 138. Row 139. Row 140. My hands were perfectly steady. When I got home that night, the dinner table looked exactly the same as it always did. The expensive meat was placed directly in front of Mia. The cheap, stir-fried potatoes were placed in front of me. My mom cheerfully piled food onto Mia's plate while talking to me without looking up. "Mia's GRE prep course is all signed up. You need to transfer an extra $800 this month to cover it." "Okay." "Also, let Mia borrow that gray puffer jacket of yours. She's going out with friends tomorrow and she complains she has nothing to wear." That jacket was the only new piece of clothing I had bought for myself in the last two years. I bought it on clearance for $80. "It's in my closet," I said flatly. Mia immediately jumped up from the table and sprinted upstairs to claim it. My mom nodded approvingly. "That's exactly how a big sister should act. Generous and accommodating." I kept my head down, staring at my bowl of rice. If I wasn't their daughter. Then who the hell was I? After dinner, I waited until the entire house was dead asleep. At 1:00 AM, I stood barefoot in the dark hallway. My parents' bedroom door was shut tight. I could hear my dad snoring loudly inside. I crept into the living room and approached the heavy, antique wooden cabinet in the corner. I was strictly forbidden from ever touching this cabinet. When I was seven years old, my curiosity got the better of me, and I tried to open it. My mom caught me and beat me black and blue. "These are adult things! What the hell is a kid doing snooping around in here?!" The cabinet was padlocked. The key was hidden in the drawer of my mom's nightstand. I had seen her put it there earlier this afternoon. But tonight, I didn't have the key. I crouched down in the dark and pulled a bobby pin from my hair. During my lunch break, my coworker Sarah had shown me a YouTube video on how to pick a basic lock to get into a jammed locker at work. The mechanism on this old padlock was practically identical. Three minutes. Click. The cylinder turned smoothly. I gently pulled the cabinet doors open. Inside, sitting on the bottom shelf, was a rusted metal lockbox covered in a thick layer of dust. The box itself wasn't locked. I lifted the lid. Inside were a few yellowed, aging documents, a sealed envelope, and a red bank passbook. The document resting on the very top was a legal contract. It was handwritten. The paper was brittle and yellowing at the edges. I turned on my phone's flashlight, holding it close, and read every single word. [Guardianship and Financial Trust Agreement] Grantor: Eleanor Vance Trustee: Martha Johnson ... "Due to terminal illness rendering the Grantor incapable of continued care, the Grantor hereby entrusts the Trustee with the physical custody and guardianship of her biological daughter, until said minor reaches the age of eighteen..." "The Grantor shall transfer all liquid assets, life insurance payouts, and accumulated savings, totaling $450,000 USD, into a designated trust account managed by the Trustee. These funds are legally mandated to be utilized strictly and exclusively for the living expenses, healthcare, and education of the minor child..." "The Trustee legally binds herself to ensure the aforementioned funds are spent solely for the benefit of the minor, Chloe Vance..." My name. In stark black and white. $450,000. Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. In the year 2000. I crouched in the pitch-black living room, my entire body violently shaking with a freezing, bone-deep cold. I pulled out my phone and photographed the agreement. I photographed the envelope, the bank passbook, and every single piece of paper stacked underneath it. Then, I meticulously put everything back exactly as I found it. The metal box. The wooden cabinet. The padlock. Everything looked entirely untouched. I walked barefoot back to my eighty-square-foot closet. I shut the door. I slid down the doorframe until I was sitting on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. All these years. Wearing Mia's worn-out hand-me-downs. Eating the cheapest garbage in the cafeteria. Eating instant ramen every day to save money. Being extorted for $2,500 every single month. Being told to my face, "You're not smart enough for school anyway." Being told, "As the older sister, you need to be generous." Being told, "The household expenses are high, you need to shoulder the burden." $450,000. Exactly who had they spent my mother's money on? I didn't confront them immediately. Because there was another name written on that contract. Eleanor Vance. My biological mother. For the next few days, I worked my corporate job during the day and frantically scoured the internet at night. I started with the name of the law firm printed on the letterhead of the contract. Sterling & Associates Law Firm. It had been over twenty years. Information online was scarce. I called the number listed in an old digital archive. Disconnected. I searched the state business registry. The firm had officially dissolved in 2015. But the dissolution documents listed the name of one of the founding partners: Arthur Sterling. I searched his name through the State Bar Association database. He was currently practicing at a different, high-profile corporate firm downtown. I saved his office address and direct line. That entire week, I continued transferring my "rent" money to my mom.
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