Chapter 1: The Road to Nowhere

The year I was at my most timid, my wealthy biological parents found me and brought me home.

My knuckles turned white as I clutched the seatbelt, watching mile after mile of highway blur past the window. The air in the car felt too thick, the leather seats creaking every time I shifted, and the faint scent of Mom's perfume mixing with my own panic. Every so often, I’d sniffle hard, swiping at my eyes with the sleeve of my old hoodie, trying to hide how much I was falling apart.

I couldn’t stop sobbing, the kind of ugly-cry that fogs up the window and makes your chest ache. My nose ran, my chest heaved with big, messy gasps. I tried to muffle the sound, but the seats only seemed to echo my crying louder, making my embarrassment worse.

Mom and Dad thought I was overwhelmed with joy, moved to tears. They kept glancing back at me, their smiles soft and watery. Mom reached back and patted my knee, thinking she was comforting her homesick, overjoyed daughter. Dad fiddled with the radio, searching for something soothing until he finally settled on a country station, the kind with warm guitar twangs and lyrics about coming home.

I wanted to tell them the truth, but the words jammed up behind my teeth. What if they didn’t want a daughter who was this much of a mess? The truth was, I was terrified.

I’d read too many stories about daughters swapped at birth—after the real daughter returns home, she’s rarely welcomed. Everyone is biased toward the fake one, while the real daughter is ignored, mistreated, or even has her kidney or heart cut out.

Those stories—urban legends on Reddit threads, dramatic movies, and every other soap on cable—were etched into my brain. It was always the same: the outsider never stood a chance.

The new home is basically a den of monsters. Monsters in cashmere and pearls, lurking behind sprawling lawns, pristine white fences, and HOA rules about mailbox height. I imagined secret arguments behind closed doors, looks of disappointment exchanged over silent dinners. The kind of coldness that seeps in and makes you wish for your old, messy, noisy family.

I was a total coward. I’d always been the kid who flinched at jump scares and worried about getting lost in the grocery store. Even now, my hands shook as I tried to calm myself, but all I could picture was being the next tragic headline on the local news.