They Told Me I Was Adopted, I Was The Real One All Along Chapter 10

They Told Me I Was Adopted, I Was The Real One All Along Chapter 10

Days passed. 

Life in the basement ground away the last scraps 

of their dignity. 

Mom’s illness worsened. She was not only 

deranged; severe arthritis left her unable to walk. 

Overworked and malnourished, Dad looked twenty 

years older than his age. 

They became the city’s most insignificant, 

miserable creatures. 

The only thing keeping them alive was their need 

to atone for what they had done to me. 

Every year on the anniversary of my death, Dad used the little money he made collecting 

recyclables to buy a small bunch of cheap white 

carnations. 

Then he pushed Mom more than six miles on foot 

to the cemetery outside the city. 

That was where the daughter they’d killed with 

their own hands lay. 

It was also the prison they could never escape in 

this lifetime. 

Three years later, in late autumn, cold wind spun 

dead yellow leaves across the cemetery’s stone 

path. 

Dad pushed the wheelchair forward and stopped, 

stumbling, at an unremarkable grave. 

Mom had become skin and bones. Her hair was 

white and wild as dead grass. 

She still clutched the stuffed bear, now washed. 

nearly white. 

“Claire, your father and I came to see you.” 

Dad placed the cheap chrysanthemums before. 

the grave. His voice was as rough as sandpaper 

against wood. 

There was no photograph on the headstone. 

They had searched every corner of the Whitmore house and discovered that in nineteen years, they 

had never taken one picture of me alone. 

The only family photo showed half of my blurry 

profile at the edge. 

Dad crouched and slowly wiped the dust from the 

stone with trembling fingers. 

“Claire, is winter cold here?” 

“I’ve collected more cardboard this year. I’ll get you 

warmer clothes. You won’t have to go without 

them the way you did at home.” 

When Mom heard the word clothes, she suddenly 

grew agitated. 

She leaned out of the wheelchair and stroked the 

cold headstone with dry fingers. 

“Good girl, Claire. Mommy isn’t playing favorites 

anymore…” 

“Mommy will buy you a new dress. Mia won’t get 

one. Only Claire will.” 

Tears ran down the deep lines of her face and fell 

on the stone, drying instantly in the wind. 

I floated quietly above the grave. 

After three years, I rarely thought about the pain of 

my life. 

I looked at the two old, broken people before me, 

who had spent nearly their entire lives being 

punished by regret. 

I touched my chest. 

There was no heartbeat, no warmth. 

And no forgiveness. 

I’d dreamed countless times that they’d look at me 

the way they did now, seeing only me. 

But now it meant nothing. 

Their suffering was the harvest of what they had 

planted. 

Whatever I had been owed had already been 

settled in that cold shed in Pine Hollow. 

“Elaine, it’s getting cold. We should go.” 

Dad stood and took one last look at the 

headstone. 

“I’ll come back in a few days.” 

He turned the wheelchair and pushed it toward the 

cemetery exit. 

Their two hunched silhouettes stretched across 

the sunset like shackles they could never break. 

I watched them disappear and suddenly felt a light 

pull. 

I knew my time here was over. 

Whatever had kept my soul here had finally let go. 

The absurd nineteen–year dream was finally over. 

I turned away from them and slowly closed my 

eyes in the last light of sunset. 

“In our next lives,” 

I whispered into the empty air. 

“Let’s not meet again.” 

Wind crossed the empty cemetery and carried 

away my final sigh. 

Everything returned to silence.

Days passed. 

Life in the basement ground away the last scraps 

of their dignity. 

Mom’s illness worsened. She was not only 

deranged; severe arthritis left her unable to walk. 

Overworked and malnourished, Dad looked twenty 

years older than his age. 

They became the city’s most insignificant, 

miserable creatures. 

The only thing keeping them alive was their need 

to atone for what they had done to me. 

Every year on the anniversary of my death, Dad used the little money he made collecting 

recyclables to buy a small bunch of cheap white 

carnations. 

Then he pushed Mom more than six miles on foot 

to the cemetery outside the city. 

That was where the daughter they’d killed with 

their own hands lay. 

It was also the prison they could never escape in 

this lifetime. 

Three years later, in late autumn, cold wind spun 

dead yellow leaves across the cemetery’s stone 

path. 

Dad pushed the wheelchair forward and stopped, 

stumbling, at an unremarkable grave. 

Mom had become skin and bones. Her hair was 

white and wild as dead grass. 

She still clutched the stuffed bear, now washed. 

nearly white. 

“Claire, your father and I came to see you.” 

Dad placed the cheap chrysanthemums before. 

the grave. His voice was as rough as sandpaper 

against wood. 

There was no photograph on the headstone. 

They had searched every corner of the Whitmore house and discovered that in nineteen years, they 

had never taken one picture of me alone. 

The only family photo showed half of my blurry 

profile at the edge. 

Dad crouched and slowly wiped the dust from the 

stone with trembling fingers. 

“Claire, is winter cold here?” 

“I’ve collected more cardboard this year. I’ll get you 

warmer clothes. You won’t have to go without 

them the way you did at home.” 

When Mom heard the word clothes, she suddenly 

grew agitated. 

She leaned out of the wheelchair and stroked the 

cold headstone with dry fingers. 

“Good girl, Claire. Mommy isn’t playing favorites 

anymore…” 

“Mommy will buy you a new dress. Mia won’t get 

one. Only Claire will.” 

Tears ran down the deep lines of her face and fell 

on the stone, drying instantly in the wind. 

I floated quietly above the grave. 

After three years, I rarely thought about the pain of 

my life. 

I looked at the two old, broken people before me, 

who had spent nearly their entire lives being 

punished by regret. 

I touched my chest. 

There was no heartbeat, no warmth. 

And no forgiveness. 

I’d dreamed countless times that they’d look at me 

the way they did now, seeing only me. 

But now it meant nothing. 

Their suffering was the harvest of what they had 

planted. 

Whatever I had been owed had already been 

settled in that cold shed in Pine Hollow. 

“Elaine, it’s getting cold. We should go.” 

Dad stood and took one last look at the 

headstone. 

“I’ll come back in a few days.” 

He turned the wheelchair and pushed it toward the 

cemetery exit. 

Their two hunched silhouettes stretched across 

the sunset like shackles they could never break. 

I watched them disappear and suddenly felt a light 

pull. 

I knew my time here was over. 

Whatever had kept my soul here had finally let go. 

The absurd nineteen–year dream was finally over. 

I turned away from them and slowly closed my 

eyes in the last light of sunset. 

“In our next lives,” 

I whispered into the empty air. 

“Let’s not meet again.” 

Wind crossed the empty cemetery and carried 

away my final sigh. 

Everything returned to silence.

Days passed. 

Life in the basement ground away the last scraps 

of their dignity. 

Mom’s illness worsened. She was not only 

deranged; severe arthritis left her unable to walk. 

Overworked and malnourished, Dad looked twenty 

years older than his age. 

They became the city’s most insignificant, 

miserable creatures. 

The only thing keeping them alive was their need 

to atone for what they had done to me. 

Every year on the anniversary of my death, Dad used the little money he made collecting 

recyclables to buy a small bunch of cheap white 

carnations. 

Then he pushed Mom more than six miles on foot 

to the cemetery outside the city. 

That was where the daughter they’d killed with 

their own hands lay. 

It was also the prison they could never escape in 

this lifetime. 

Three years later, in late autumn, cold wind spun 

dead yellow leaves across the cemetery’s stone 

path. 

Dad pushed the wheelchair forward and stopped, 

stumbling, at an unremarkable grave. 

Mom had become skin and bones. Her hair was 

white and wild as dead grass. 

She still clutched the stuffed bear, now washed. 

nearly white. 

“Claire, your father and I came to see you.” 

Dad placed the cheap chrysanthemums before. 

the grave. His voice was as rough as sandpaper 

against wood. 

There was no photograph on the headstone. 

They had searched every corner of the Whitmore house and discovered that in nineteen years, they 

had never taken one picture of me alone. 

The only family photo showed half of my blurry 

profile at the edge. 

Dad crouched and slowly wiped the dust from the 

stone with trembling fingers. 

“Claire, is winter cold here?” 

“I’ve collected more cardboard this year. I’ll get you 

warmer clothes. You won’t have to go without 

them the way you did at home.” 

When Mom heard the word clothes, she suddenly 

grew agitated. 

She leaned out of the wheelchair and stroked the 

cold headstone with dry fingers. 

“Good girl, Claire. Mommy isn’t playing favorites 

anymore…” 

“Mommy will buy you a new dress. Mia won’t get 

one. Only Claire will.” 

Tears ran down the deep lines of her face and fell 

on the stone, drying instantly in the wind. 

I floated quietly above the grave. 

After three years, I rarely thought about the pain of 

my life. 

I looked at the two old, broken people before me, 

who had spent nearly their entire lives being 

punished by regret. 

I touched my chest. 

There was no heartbeat, no warmth. 

And no forgiveness. 

I’d dreamed countless times that they’d look at me 

the way they did now, seeing only me. 

But now it meant nothing. 

Their suffering was the harvest of what they had 

planted. 

Whatever I had been owed had already been 

settled in that cold shed in Pine Hollow. 

“Elaine, it’s getting cold. We should go.” 

Dad stood and took one last look at the 

headstone. 

“I’ll come back in a few days.” 

He turned the wheelchair and pushed it toward the 

cemetery exit. 

Their two hunched silhouettes stretched across 

the sunset like shackles they could never break. 

I watched them disappear and suddenly felt a light 

pull. 

I knew my time here was over. 

Whatever had kept my soul here had finally let go. 

The absurd nineteen–year dream was finally over. 

I turned away from them and slowly closed my 

eyes in the last light of sunset. 

“In our next lives,” 

I whispered into the empty air. 

“Let’s not meet again.” 

Wind crossed the empty cemetery and carried 

away my final sigh. 

Everything returned to silence.

Days passed. 

Life in the basement ground away the last scraps 

of their dignity. 

Mom’s illness worsened. She was not only 

deranged; severe arthritis left her unable to walk. 

Overworked and malnourished, Dad looked twenty 

years older than his age. 

They became the city’s most insignificant, 

miserable creatures. 

The only thing keeping them alive was their need 

to atone for what they had done to me. 

Every year on the anniversary of my death, Dad used the little money he made collecting 

recyclables to buy a small bunch of cheap white 

carnations. 

Then he pushed Mom more than six miles on foot 

to the cemetery outside the city. 

That was where the daughter they’d killed with 

their own hands lay. 

It was also the prison they could never escape in 

this lifetime. 

Three years later, in late autumn, cold wind spun 

dead yellow leaves across the cemetery’s stone 

path. 

Dad pushed the wheelchair forward and stopped, 

stumbling, at an unremarkable grave. 

Mom had become skin and bones. Her hair was 

white and wild as dead grass. 

She still clutched the stuffed bear, now washed. 

nearly white. 

“Claire, your father and I came to see you.” 

Dad placed the cheap chrysanthemums before. 

the grave. His voice was as rough as sandpaper 

against wood. 

There was no photograph on the headstone. 

They had searched every corner of the Whitmore house and discovered that in nineteen years, they 

had never taken one picture of me alone. 

The only family photo showed half of my blurry 

profile at the edge. 

Dad crouched and slowly wiped the dust from the 

stone with trembling fingers. 

“Claire, is winter cold here?” 

“I’ve collected more cardboard this year. I’ll get you 

warmer clothes. You won’t have to go without 

them the way you did at home.” 

When Mom heard the word clothes, she suddenly 

grew agitated. 

She leaned out of the wheelchair and stroked the 

cold headstone with dry fingers. 

“Good girl, Claire. Mommy isn’t playing favorites 

anymore…” 

“Mommy will buy you a new dress. Mia won’t get 

one. Only Claire will.” 

Tears ran down the deep lines of her face and fell 

on the stone, drying instantly in the wind. 

I floated quietly above the grave. 

After three years, I rarely thought about the pain of 

my life. 

I looked at the two old, broken people before me, 

who had spent nearly their entire lives being 

punished by regret. 

I touched my chest. 

There was no heartbeat, no warmth. 

And no forgiveness. 

I’d dreamed countless times that they’d look at me 

the way they did now, seeing only me. 

But now it meant nothing. 

Their suffering was the harvest of what they had 

planted. 

Whatever I had been owed had already been 

settled in that cold shed in Pine Hollow. 

“Elaine, it’s getting cold. We should go.” 

Dad stood and took one last look at the 

headstone. 

“I’ll come back in a few days.” 

He turned the wheelchair and pushed it toward the 

cemetery exit. 

Their two hunched silhouettes stretched across 

the sunset like shackles they could never break. 

I watched them disappear and suddenly felt a light 

pull. 

I knew my time here was over. 

Whatever had kept my soul here had finally let go. 

The absurd nineteen–year dream was finally over. 

I turned away from them and slowly closed my 

eyes in the last light of sunset. 

“In our next lives,” 

I whispered into the empty air. 

“Let’s not meet again.” 

Wind crossed the empty cemetery and carried 

away my final sigh. 

Everything returned to silence.