A Fake Poverty that My Parent Build for Me
Boom! Boom! The car’s engine revved again.
But this time, the college security guards reacted swiftly, pulling the keys from the ignition and dragging the driver out of the vehicle. It was Celline.
She let out a deranged laugh, her eyes brimming with madness. “You all deserve to die! Hahaha…”
Her gaze locked onto me, seething with venomous hatred. “Naomi! You’re the one who deserves to die the
most!”
A chill ran down my spine.
The police arrived moments later, arresting Celline, while Dad was rushed to the hospital. Thankfully, his life wasn’t in danger. But his right leg had been severely fractured. The doctors said he might never walk properly again -he would either need crutches or a wheelchair for the rest of his life.
Three days later, Dad finally woke up. His first words were, “Where’s Little Naomi?”
Mom’s voice was small and trembling as she answered, “She left… went to work… no one knows where she is.” And she was right. This time, I had become part of a top–secret national research project. I would likely remain anonymous for the rest of my life. But I liked it that way.
(The End)
I was the long–lost daughter of the richest family in San Francisco.
When I found my biological parents, I thought I would finally experience the love and warmth of family. But instead, devastating news came–they had been kidnapped abroad.
Even after my parents gave their entire fortune to the kidnappers, they were still not released. The kidnappers demanded another million from me.
Every day, I received videos of my parents being tortured. My father and mother were bruised and battered, and my older brother even had one of his hands cut off. Desperate to save them, I worked tirelessly and sent money to the kidnappers, praying they would show mercy to my family.
One day, while cleaning restrooms at a high–end jewelry store, I saw them–my beloved family.
My parents were dressed in luxury brands, looking completely unscathed. They generously bought jewelry worth tens of millions for their goddaughter.
My brother, Julian, both hands perfectly intact, was smoking a cigar and boasting to his friends, “I have a long–lost idiot sister. We’ve been playing her like a fool.”
I stood frozen in the doorway of the restroom, watching them walk past me.
Dressed in my janitor’s uniform, they didn’t recognize me. They didn’t even glance in my direction.
But I recognized them. Yet, I didn’t dare approach.
Was it really them? Weren’t they kidnapped? Why were they here, unharmed?
C
D
10:29 AM.
A Fake Poverty that My Parent Build for Me
Unless…
It was all a lie.
A deception carefully orchestrated by my own family to get rid of me.
I looked at their goddaughter, surrounded by their love and attention, and felt a bitter ache in my heart.
Twenty years ago, I got separated from my parents.
I was picked up by Aunt Zamara, a humble bathhouse worker who raised me on her meager salary.
Meanwhile, my biological parents adopted another daughter to fill the void, showering her with love and luxury.
When I finally returned, I thought I would receive the same affection. I thought they would love me.
I never expected that they never considered me part of their family.
“Rianne, today is your birthday. Pick anything you like,” my father said cheerfully.
Rianne, their goddaughter, feigned modesty with a delicate expression. “Dad, now that my sister has returned, my birthday shouldn’t be celebrated so extravagantly anymore.”
My father snorted, and spat, “So what if she’s back? She’s nothing but a lowly thing. She’ll never compare to you.”
My mother, full of concern, asked, “Rianne, why would you say that? Did that dirty thing bully you? Don’t worry. She won’t be around anymore.”
Rianne didn’t deny it; instead, she smiled ambiguously. “Thank you, Mom.”
My brother, Julian, laughed and said to Rianne, “Lil sis, your birthdays should be even grander from now on. After all, that idiot is out there working her fingers to the bone to make money for us.”
“I heard from a friend that she’s doing all kinds of filthy, degrading work just to scrape cash. Even cleaning toilets.”
My mother waved her hand dismissively, her face filled with disgust. “Enough. Just thinking about that dirty thing makes me sick.”
I stood at the restroom door, tears streaming down my face as I listened.
So this was how my biological family saw me.
10:29 AM
A Fake Poverty that My Parent Build for Me
I remembered how indifferent my mother was to me when I first came back, keeping her distance.
Once, during dinner, I finished all the food in my bowl.
Her expression changed immediately, and she looked at me with disdain.
Aunt Zamara, despite her low income, always taught me not to waste food: She worked hard to raise me, and frugality was ingrained in me from a young age.
But to my biological mother, even this was repulsive.
