Shattered Illusions

I am the other woman’s daughter.
For my first ten years, I was my mother’s cherished darling—the apple of her eye.
Then the truth crashed down: my biological mother wasn’t the one who raised me, but my father’s mistress.
The day I was born, they conspired to swap me with the true Hawthorne heiress.
After raising her enemy’s child for a decade, the only mother I knew wished she could cast me into hell.
She found her real daughter. They clung to each other, tears mingling.
My voice trembled. “Mom…”
Her eyes met mine, filled with pure hatred.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t call me Mom. Your mother is that woman in prison!”
Even my grandparents, who once doted on me, glared with fury.
“You stole our granddaughter’s life! Why don’t you just drop dead?”

1
Inside the grand mansion, the strange, cold stares from the butler and the maids were like needles against my skin.
My mother’s daughter, the true heiress to the Hawthorne Corporation fortune… had been found.
Her life had been a nightmare. She was covered in filth, her small body a canvas of bruises, purple and blue. She was nine, the same age as me, but so gaunt she looked no older than four.
My grandparents held her, their bodies shaking with sobs.
No one looked at me. I was forgotten, a ghost in the corner.
A policewoman spoke with a voice full of pity.
“Your daughter was adopted from an orphanage at age five. Tragically, her adoptive parents had a biological child of their own the following year. After that, they neglected her completely.”
“They would ‘lose’ her on purpose and never report her missing. She survived by begging on the streets, just to get enough to eat.”
“Whenever she managed to find her way back, they would abuse her. It was a vicious cycle…”
The more the officer spoke, the more my mother’s face crumbled.
“How could they do that to my Gemma?” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “They adopted her, didn’t they? If they wouldn’t feed her, fine, but why… why did they have to hurt her?”
“Why?”
Amidst the hushed whispers of the adults, I pieced together the horrifying truth.
My mother wasn't my mother.
I was the cuckoo in the nest.
My real mother was the woman they called the mistress, the homewrecker, the seductress. She had destroyed my parents' marriage. Then, she had stolen my mother’s real baby and replaced her with her own—with me. My father had taken my mother’s child and dumped her in a trash can, where a kind passerby found her and took her to an orphanage.
I had never seen such agony on my mother’s face. She looked as if she were shattering from the inside out. She dropped to her knees, slapping her own face, the sounds echoing in the silent room.
“It’s all my fault… I didn’t protect my Gemma!”
She looked like a broken doll I once had.
Carefully, I crept forward and took her hand, wanting to comfort her as I always did. I couldn't bear to see her cry.
“Mom, please don’t cry,” I whispered. “It hurts me to see you sad…”
The familiar touch of my small hand seemed to jolt her. She whipped her head around to look at me.
It was the first time her gaze had truly landed on me since the world had fallen apart.
Her eyes blazed with a terrifying, absolute hatred.
“Don’t touch me! And don’t call me Mom!” she screamed. “Your real mother is that monster who’s going to prison! Do you understand? Go find her in a cell!”
“You are not my mother! I have my own daughter!”
“You should be in jail with your baby-snatching parents! You should all just die!”
She ripped her hand away from mine and, clutching her head, let out a piercing scream. I stumbled backward, my head cracking hard against the sharp corner of a mahogany table.
“Mommy—”
Her face was a mask of rage. “Get out! Are you deaf? Stop putting on an act!” she snarled. “I am not your mother! Don’t call me that! It makes me sick!”
The blood rushed to her head, her body overwhelmed by the violent emotions. She collapsed onto the floor.
My grandparents rushed to her side, catching her before she hit the ground. The family doctor was there in an instant, and they all crowded around her, a protective wall I could not breach.
I lay on the floor, pain radiating from my head, but no one paid me any mind.
Mr. Henderson, the butler, and Mrs. Gable, our housekeeper, looked at me as if I were a maggot squirming in the gutter. I remembered how they used to adore me. Before, the slightest scrape or bump would have sent them into a flurry of concern.
“Miss Adeline, please slow down…”
“Oh, my dear, let Mrs. Gable kiss it and make it better!”
Now, I just curled into a ball on the floor, too afraid to move. The servants’ eyes were on me—some filled with disgust, some with hatred, and some with a cruel, satisfied glee.

2
That frail, skeletal girl was my mother’s real daughter. Gemma.
She pointed a trembling finger at me and shrieked, “Don’t you hurt my mommy! You made her faint!”
She charged at me, ramming her head into my chest. I had just managed to push myself up, but her impact sent me flying backward, tumbling down the grand staircase.
I cried out as I rolled, the world a blur of pain and polished wood, from the second floor all the way down to the first.
The policewoman quickly stepped in, holding Gemma back. “Sweetheart, calm down. She didn’t touch your mother. She was… she was your mother’s former daughter. She’s only a child; she didn’t mean any harm.”
Those words—former daughter—ignited my mother’s rage anew.
“She is not my daughter!” she screamed, her voice raw. “Never! Never! NEVER!”
My grandmother turned on the policewoman, her voice dripping with venom. “How dare you? What if it was your child who was stolen? Would you be so understanding then? What if you raised your husband’s bastard child with his mistress? Would you be happy about it?”
The officer hung her head in shame, mumbling an apology.
My cry of pain as I landed at the bottom of the stairs finally drew their attention.
My grandmother stood at the top of the landing, looking down at me. The face that had once smiled at me with such love was now twisted into an ugly, cruel mask.
“Just the bastard child of a whore,” she spat. “You stole my granddaughter’s life and left her to suffer like this. Why don’t you do us all a favor and die?”
The servants’ whispers filled the air.
“Poor Mrs. Hawthorne. To pour all her love and hope into raising a child, only to find out she belongs to that… that woman.”
“Exactly. The Madam gave her everything, and she wasn't even her own blood. That’s a pain worse than death.”
“Deceived by her own husband, forced to raise his love child while her own daughter was being tortured… who could possibly endure that?”
“Do you think they’ll throw her out?”
Hearing their words, my mind went blank.
Thrown out?
A jolt of pure terror shot through me. Ignoring the throbbing in my head and the ache in my limbs, I scrambled on all fours back to my mother’s side.
But before I could reach her, a wall of bodies blocked my path.
I stared, my expression frozen in a mask of numb fear. My thoughts were a chaotic mess; I didn’t know what to say.
Finally, I did the only thing I could think of. I knelt before my mother.
“Please… can you not… throw me away?”

3
I didn’t dare call her Mom.
I was too afraid it would make her angrier. So I just kept knocking my forehead against the cold marble floor, over and over.
I was nine years old. I understood right from wrong, mostly. I’d seen it on TV shows. Everyone always hated the other woman. Everyone always hated the other woman’s child.
I was that child.
I needed to apologize to my mother.
But she took a step back, turning her head away, refusing to even look at me.
“I don’t want to see her,” she said, her voice ice. “Get her out of this house.”
My head was spinning from the repeated impacts. Through the haze of pain and confusion, someone kicked me hard, sending me rolling into a corner.
My head buzzed. My stomach hurt, my arms hurt, my legs hurt.
“It hurts…” I whimpered, tears streaming from my eyes.
But I couldn’t bring myself to cry out for my mother. I didn’t even dare to look up. I was terrified of meeting her eyes and seeing the hatred burning there.

4
My father and his mistress—my biological mother—had been exposed. My mother had already sent them to prison. My father was left with nothing and wouldn't be out for ten years.
I had nowhere to go. The police were discussing my future with my grandparents. I don’t know what they said, only that they talked for a very, very long time.
In the end, though no one wanted it, custody of me remained with the Hawthornes. My father’s parents were long dead, and my biological mother was an orphan with no relatives.
My grandparents didn’t show me to a room. No one told me where to go. The princess bedroom that had been mine was being dismantled by a demolition crew my mother had called.
She said she never wanted to see that room again.
My mother carried my new sister, Gemma, upstairs without a single glance in my direction. My grandparents hurried after them, eager to tend to their newly returned granddaughter.
I trailed shakily behind my grandmother, wanting to ask where I was supposed to stay.
SLAM.
The bedroom door was shut in my face.
On the other side of the door, I could hear their voices—a mixture of joyful laughter and comforting sobs.
I bit my lip, my heart pounding with fear, and gave a soft, tentative knock.
No response.
Ten minutes later, I knocked again, even more gently this time.
The door flew open. I flinched.
It was my grandfather. He looked down at me, his eyes cold. A storm of rage brewed beneath his calm exterior.
“Grandpa…” I whispered. “Where… where do I sleep tonight?”
“Don’t knock on this door. And don’t you dare disturb my daughter,” he said flatly. “And another thing. Don’t call me Grandpa anymore. We are not related.”
I lowered my gaze, staring at the tips of my shoes. He waited until I nodded before shutting the door again.
I heard Gemma’s voice from inside. “Who was that, Grandpa?”
His voice was instantly warm and kind. “I was just telling a servant to bring you up some warm milk, sweetheart. Drink up, and you’ll grow up big and strong.”
I still didn’t know where to go. I just curled up in a ball by the door.
I don’t know how much time passed.
In a hazy state between waking and sleep, I felt a rough hand grab me and start dragging me across the floor. I blinked my eyes open, disoriented.
It was Mr. Henderson, the butler.
“Mr. Henderson…”
He sneered, the anger in his eyes still burning bright. “Sleep outside. Don’t be an eyesore for the Madam.”
I thought he was throwing me out for good. I began to tremble and struggle wildly.
But he only dragged me to the back door of the mansion.
A wave of relief washed over me. I cautiously curled up behind the large trash bins.
“Thank you, Mr. Henderson,” I whispered.
He acted as if he hadn’t heard me. With a sharp click, he locked the back door and walked away.
Whether it was behind a trash can or on the street, as long as I could be near my mother, I would take it.
Goodnight, Mom. Goodnight, Grandma, Grandpa. Goodnight, Mrs. Gable, Mr. Henderson. Goodnight, Gemma.

5
The late autumn air was turning colder by the day.
Hugging my small frame, I curled up behind the trash cans and drifted off to sleep.
In my dream, my mother was holding me gently in her arms. The sunlight fell on her face, making her look so soft and beautiful.
“Addie, my sweet, sweet Addie,” she whispered. “Mommy loves you more than anything.”
The next second, her face twisted into a snarl.
“You’re not my Addie! Give me back my daughter!”
She shoved me hard. I fell backward into a bottomless pond. The water closed over my head, filling my nose, my mouth. An icy chill pierced me to the bone. I thrashed underwater, trying to scream for help.
Mommy, save me…
But the moment I opened my mouth, water rushed in, choking me. The weight of the lake pressed down, paralyzing me.
I snapped my eyes open.
It was pitch black all around me. It was just a nightmare.
No.
I shook my head. Mom was in it, so it was a good dream.
The lights in the backyard were off; there wasn't a single sliver of light. My head felt like it was full of sludge, thick and foggy. My body felt like it was melting.
“So hot…”
My hand trembled as I reached up to touch my forehead.
I think I had a fever.
“Mommy, I don’t feel good…” I whispered, not daring to speak too loud, terrified she might actually hear me. I said it softly, just for myself.
“Addie’s only a little bit sick. Just a little bit.”
When I lowered my hand, my palm felt sticky. I held it up to the moonlight. It was crusted with dried blood. I couldn’t remember when I’d hit my head. The pale light also illuminated the dark bruises that had blossomed on my skin from my fall down the stairs.
A cold wind swept through the yard.
My body was a war of fire and ice. My vision blurred, and my consciousness began to fade.
Maybe today is just a dream, too.
Just go to sleep, Adeline. When you wake up, you’ll be home.

6
I don’t know how long I floated in that darkness, but a shrill scream pierced the veil and ripped through my eardrums.
The sound shocked me awake.
At the same instant, a bucket of sloshing, mixed leftovers was dumped over my head.
“Ah! There’s someone here!”
“Is that… the young miss?”
I was drenched in a foul-smelling concoction of table scraps. The stench was so overwhelming I couldn't help but vomit, adding the sharp, sour smell of bile to the air.
A maid moved to help me up, but recoiled when she saw the filth clinging to me. She didn’t want to get her hands dirty.
Hearing the commotion, my new sister, Gemma, poked her head out the back door.
She let out a scream of her own. “Ugh, you stink!”
I looked down at the gooey mess on my clothes and felt a hot wave of shame. It was my fault. I had scared her.
I forced a placating smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I desperately tried to wipe the muck off myself, but the more I rubbed, the stickier and more disgusting it became, smearing into a foul paste. I saw Gemma’s expression curdle with even more revulsion.
A new fear gripped me. If Gemma was disgusted by me, I might not even be allowed to stay by the trash cans anymore.
I tore off my jacket and threw it as far away as I could, trying to lessen the smell.
Suddenly, my mother’s voice came from behind me.
“Gemma, honey, come inside for breakfast. Mommy made you your favorite oatmeal. Come see if you like it.”
I froze, my head bowed, not daring to look up.
Mom had given her a new middle name: Jewel. Gemma Jewel Hawthorne.
Gemma bounced into our mother’s arms. “I love anything Mommy makes!”
My grandmother gathered Gemma into a loving hug. “Oh, our little Jewel is so sweet with her words! Just like your mother when she was a little girl.”
Through the corner of my eye, I snuck a glance at them. Gemma’s features were a perfect mirror of our mother’s, like she was a miniature version.
My gaze shifted to my own reflection in the nearby glass window.
No resemblance.
Mom had double eyelids; I had monolids. Not even close. My single eyelids were ugly. In that moment, I hated my eyes.
Gemma’s voice was sugary sweet. “Of course I’m like Mommy. I’m her daughter!”
My grandparents and the maids all laughed, their joy echoing through the morning air.
“The young miss is so charming!”
“That she is!”
The family went back inside, supporting each other, their path filled with laughter. I stared, transfixed, at the window, greedily watching my mother’s reflection until it disappeared from view.
My grandmother shot one last look of disgust over her shoulder at me before shutting the door completely.
Her final words drifted into my ears.
“This is not where you belong. We have no obligation to raise you.”
“Go find your father in prison.”
“Stop leeching off the Hawthornes.”
I lowered my eyes, staring at the ground.
In the morning sun, the trash can and I cast two shadows.
Long was its shadow, and short were my days.

First, search for and download the MotoNovel app from Google. Then, open the app and use the code "245712" to read the entire book.