The Wrong Daughter

My mother hated me, but she treated my cousin like she was a precious gem.
My childhood was a blur of chores and punishments for the slightest mistake, while my cousin wore princess dresses, played the piano, and was doted on by my aunt and uncle.
Then came the night of my cousin’s birthday. My mother, drunk on wine and bitterness, confessed the truth: she had switched us at birth.
I wasn’t her daughter. I belonged to my aunt.
Ecstatic, my heart soaring with hope, I ran to my aunt with the news. But she just met my story with an icy smile.
“You think I didn’t know?” she said. “But I don’t want you. You will never be my daughter.”
It was like a bucket of ice water being poured over my soul. I couldn’t understand why I was the child no one wanted. From that day forward, I stopped begging for scraps of love.
Years later, when I earned my acceptance to Yale and slapped two DNA reports down on the table in front of them, they both finally panicked.

1
“Leah, where the hell are you? Did you forget your cousin’s birthday?”
The voice on the phone was a lit match. I flinched, snapping my textbook shut and hiding it in the kitchen cabinet where I slept. A second later, the sliding door to the back patio rattled open and my mother, Sharon, filled the frame. Seeing me standing there, small and silent, a look of pure disgust soured her face.
“Look at you, pathetic. Nothing like your cousin. What are you doing hiding in here? Let’s go. Now.”
I scurried to follow her. When I wasn’t fast enough, she grabbed my arm and yanked, so hard I nearly tripped over my own feet.
My mother didn’t love me.
I’d known this my whole life. My aunt, Carol, once explained it was because my father had been a deadbeat who’d walked out on us. That was the story, anyway. A ghost I was being punished for.
So I tried to be perfect. I tiptoed through the house. I got straight A’s, once holding up a test with a perfect 100 printed in red at the top.
She’d ripped it in half and thrown the pieces at my face.
“You could study for a thousand years,” she’d snarled, “and you’d still never be half the girl your cousin is.”
I’d choked back tears and just studied harder, determined to prove her wrong. I wasn’t worse. I wasn’t less than Chloe.
But then she took my pencils and notebooks and replaced them with a broom and a bottle of Windex.
“If you have so much free time, you can make yourself useful. This house better be spotless from now on. And you’re going to learn to cook. I’m not feeding a freeloader.”
And just like that, the one path I had to prove myself was barricaded. Maybe she was right. Maybe a child born unloved can never compete with one who is cherished.
Arriving at my aunt’s house drove the point home.
Chloe was holding court in a beautiful pink dress and a little rhinestone tiara, surrounded by a crowd of equally well-dressed friends, ready to cut into a massive cake.
I hesitated at the door, scared to even take off my shoes.
My socks had holes in them. The sole of my left sneaker was loose; one wrong move and it might flap open like a mouth.
Seeing me linger, my mother’s patience snapped. She muttered something about me being an embarrassment and shoved a pair of men’s oversized flip-flops at my feet before plastering a brilliant smile on her face and presenting her gift to Chloe.
“For you, sweetie. I know you wanted this one.”
It was a delicate crystal necklace, the pendant shaped like a swan. On Chloe, it looked magnificent. She looked like a real princess. A pang of envy, sharp and bitter, shot through me. We shared a birthday, Chloe and I, but I’d never gotten a gift, let alone something so beautiful.
“Thank you, Aunt Sharon!” Chloe chirped, and my mother’s face lit up.
“Anything for my brilliant, wonderful girl,” she said, then shot a look in my direction. “Not like that one. Barely speaks. Might as well be a ghost.”
I stared at my reflection in the polished hardwood floor, a skinny, hunched-over shadow. A rat spying on a feast. Some of Chloe’s friends were looking at me, whispering. One asked Chloe how old I was, if I was in elementary school.
We were in the same grade at the same middle school. But I was invisible there, too. I sat in the last seat of a 49-student classroom. No one talked to me. I was the girl in the ill-fitting hand-me-downs who smelled like mothballs and sadness. They said I was like an orphan.
Chloe glanced at me. “No, we’re the same age,” she said quickly. “Anyway, let’s do the candles!”
My Aunt Carol, seeing me stranded by the door, walked over. Her voice was always gentle. “Leah, come on. You can help Chloe blow out her candles.”
But standing next to my cousin, under the bright lights of the dining room, the feeling of being less-than only intensified.
Someone wrinkled their nose. “Ugh, what’s that smell?”
I flinched, a Pavlovian response to any criticism.
Others started sniffing the air. Chloe frowned, her eyes landing on me. “Leah, is that you? Maybe… maybe you should go take a shower or something.”
I instinctively sniffed the collar of my worn t-shirt. I’d showered right before we left. It couldn’t be me.
“It’s not…” My eyes fell to the giant flip-flops on my feet. “Maybe it’s the shoes?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Chloe snapped, her voice sharp. “Those are my dad’s. They’re brand new. It’s you. Do you have athlete’s foot or something?”
Panic seized me. I didn’t know whether to take them off or argue.
My mother, already half-drunk on celebratory wine, heard the commotion and stormed over. Without a word, she slapped me across the face. The crack echoed in the suddenly silent room.
“You’re old enough to know how to keep yourself clean! Get outside and wait for me. Now!”
The other kids stared, their mouths hanging open. My face was on fire, a hot, spreading shame that felt worse than the sting. A tiny, nascent bud of self-respect had just tried to bloom inside me, and my mother had crushed it under her heel.
Aunt Carol finally stepped in. “Sharon, what are you doing? It’s not her fault. Mark’s feet stink. It has nothing to do with the kid.”
I looked at her with a rush of gratitude. I often wished she were my mother. She would speak to me gently. She wouldn’t hit me. I’d get a cake on my birthday and I wouldn’t have to spend my life scrubbing floors.
But my mother just shot me a glare before turning to Chloe, her face melting into a mask of apology.
“Chloe, honey, I am so, so sorry. This little brat ruined your party. I promise you, I will deal with her when we get home.”
A cold dread washed over me. I knew what “dealing with her” meant.
She dragged me out of the house. The second the door closed behind us, she shoved me, hard. I lost my footing at the top of the porch stairs and tumbled down, landing in a heap on the concrete. It wasn’t enough. She was on me in a second, grabbing my hair and slapping me again, twice.
“You bitch,” she hissed, her breath thick with wine. “You useless little bitch. Why didn’t you just die when you were born?”
My head swam. For a second, I didn’t know if the insults were for me or for herself. Inside the house, my cousin was celebrating. Out here, I was being beaten.
Something snapped. A dam of years of swallowed resentment and silent grief burst inside me. I found a strength I didn’t know I had and shoved her away.
“If you hate me so much,” I screamed, my voice raw, “why did you even have me?”
She froze, stunned by my defiance. “You think I wanted you? If it wasn’t for…” She stopped herself, her eyes wide as if she’d almost let a secret slip.
Back at our apartment, she cracked open a bottle of cheap vodka and sat drinking in the dark living room, muttering about how I’d ruined everything. I hid in the kitchen, where my small mattress was shoved into a corner. It was my bedroom.
Through the window, moonlight spilled onto the floor. I wiped my tears, pulled my textbook from its hiding place, and started to read. I was slow. I had to work twice as hard to keep up with Chloe, to have any hope of getting into a good high school.
Hours later, the kitchen light flickered on. My mother stood there, swaying. I shoved my book under the thin blanket, my heart hammering.
She staggered over and stood looking down at me. I braced myself. But then, she smiled. It was a soft, gentle smile. The kind she only ever gave Chloe.
“Mom loves you so much,” she slurred, her voice thick. “You won’t hate me, will you?”
I stared, frozen. The world stopped spinning. Did she just say she loved me?
But then she collapsed onto the edge of my mattress, her head lolling onto my shoulder. Her next words were a woozy whisper.
“Chloe… my sweet Chloe. When you get into college, you’ll come back to Mom, right? We’ll be a family. They don’t deserve you. That bitch and her husband… they don’t deserve my perfect girl.”
Her voice dropped even lower, a conspiratorial murmur against my ear. “If Mom wasn’t so broke back then… no job, no money… I never would have swapped you with that little brat. I love you so, so much, my Chloe…”
Boom.
A hammer crashed down inside my skull.
Could it be true? I wasn’t her daughter? I was Aunt Carol’s?
I thought of my aunt’s gentle voice, her kind eyes. The way she always seemed to look at Chloe with so much love. Could that love, that tenderness, be meant for me? Could I really have a mother like that?
I barely slept. The next day, I had a plan.
After school, I saw Aunt Carol’s car pull up to get Chloe. I waited, hiding behind a tree until they were at their front door, and then I called out her name.
She looked surprised but told Chloe to go inside, then walked back to the sidewalk to meet me.
“What is it, Leah? Is something wrong?”
My hands twisted the hem of my shirt. I forced myself to repeat my mother’s drunken words, every last detail. My voice shook.
“Aunt Carol,” I finished, my heart in my throat. “Am I… am I really your daughter?”
The warmth in her face vanished. The smile disappeared. She looked at me, and for the first time, I saw my mother in her eyes. A chilling coldness.
“You think I’m your mother?” she asked, her voice flat.
A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. I regretted everything. I’d made a mistake. Now she would hate me, too.
“I… I want you to be,” I whispered.
She laughed, a short, ugly sound. All the gentleness I’d ever imagined was gone, replaced by pure mockery.
“You think I don’t know?” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “Of course I know. But what does it matter? It doesn’t matter if you’re my child or not. I don’t want you. You will never, ever be my daughter.”
She turned and walked away without a backward glance.
I stood there on the sidewalk for a long time, long after her door had shut, long after the sun had set.
It didn’t matter who gave birth to me. My mother didn’t love me. My aunt didn’t want me.
I was nobody’s child.
After that day, I stopped asking questions. I stopped hoping for love. I still didn’t know the whole truth, but I knew one thing for sure: the only person who could change my life was me. And the only way to do that was to study.
I became a machine. I studied during class, between classes, during lunch. At home, after scrubbing the floors and making dinner, I studied in my kitchen corner by the light of the moon.
I would get into the best high school. And then I would get into the best college.
It didn't matter if they loved me.
I would love myself.
It paid off. On the midterm exams, I ranked first in our grade. Chloe was second. She cried when she saw the results. She’d never been second to anyone, especially not to me.
Aunt Carol rushed to her side, wrapping her in a hug, murmuring comforts. “It doesn’t matter what you score, honey. Mommy will always love you.”
My mother came, too. When she saw Chloe’s tear-streaked face, she walked straight over to me and kicked my shin so hard I buckled.
“You useless piece of trash,” she hissed for all to hear. “What did you do to make your cousin cry? Apologize to her. Right now.”
I was on my knees on the cold linoleum floor of the school hallway. This time, Aunt Carol didn’t even look at me. She just steered Chloe away.
My mother kicked me again. “Are you deaf? I said apologize!”
But what had I done wrong?
My homeroom teacher, Ms. Albright, intervened, pulling my mother away. As she left, my mother spat on the floor near my feet. “Goddamn mute. You should’ve just died.”
Then she hurried off, no doubt to find Chloe.
Ms. Albright helped me up and took me back to her empty classroom. She made me a cup of hot chocolate from a packet she kept in her desk.
“Leah,” she started, then sighed. “It’s cold out. Drink this. It’ll warm you up.”
She looked at me, her expression full of a pained kindness I wasn’t used to. “You know, you’ve earned something special. From now on, in this class, the number one student gets a title. We’ll call it the ‘Solo’ spot. Because being at the top means you’re in a class all by yourself. And this time, that title belongs to you.”
The classroom was empty, but her words felt like a standing ovation. Tears pricked my eyes. She had found a way to give me a name that meant something other than unwanted.
For the name Solo, I would work even harder.
Ms. Albright moved my desk from the forgotten back corner to the front row, right by her podium. For the first time, I had a deskmate. Her name was Maya. She was a cheerful, chubby girl who always had snacks and would sometimes slide a bag of chips or a cookie onto my desk.
“Solo, you’re so skinny. Don’t you ever eat?”
I was in charge of cooking at home, but when my mother wasn’t there, the pantry was empty. I often went hungry. She didn’t give me money for the school cafeteria; my existence was an afterthought.
When Maya figured this out, she started packing extra food, claiming she couldn’t possibly finish it all and begging me to help her out. Under her care, I gained a little weight. My cheeks filled out. In return, I helped her with her homework, and slowly, I started to talk more, my voice growing stronger.
The high school entrance exams were a month away. I was ready.
But on the morning of the first test, my mother locked me in the kitchen.
I screamed, I banged on the door, but she wouldn’t open it. Through the glass pane, I saw her take the exam admission letter and all the books I’d hidden in the cabinet and rip them to shreds.
I sank to the floor amidst the confetti of my future. Her voice came from the other side of the door.
“What’s the point of all that studying? Even if you got in, I wouldn’t pay for it. You’re not Chloe. Just accept your fate.”
My heart felt like it had turned to stone. “Mom,” I asked, my voice flat and dead, “is Chloe your real daughter?”
I saw her shadow freeze. “What nonsense are you talking about? I’m your mother. If you were half as well-behaved as your cousin, I wouldn’t have to do this!”
I didn’t know what I had ever done that was so wrong.
One by one, I picked up the torn pieces of my admission letter and put them in my pocket.
Her voice droned on. “I’m telling you, your future is in a factory or married off to some loser! I raised you all these years, it’s time you paid me back. Stop trying to compete with your cousin. You can’t.”
I didn’t hear her. I was looking at the window. An idea, wild and terrifying, took root.
We lived on the third floor. Below the kitchen window was the building’s shared carport, covered by a corrugated plastic awning.
If I was lucky, I’d land on the awning.
If I wasn’t…
I closed my eyes. A broken arm, a broken leg.
It was a price I was willing to pay. I had to fight for myself, just this once.

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