Scorched by Fate: A Daughter’s Rebirth

When I was six, I spilled hot water, slipped, and burned my face. My face was ruined. My parents learned their lesson and never let my younger sister do housework. To everyone they met, they praised her beauty, her charm. They turned to me with nothing but disdain.

When I was ten, I had a high fever. They didn't think much of it and let it drag on until my brain was damaged, leaving me slow and dull. They learned their lesson again. From then on, if my sister so much as coughed, they would rush her to the hospital in the dead of night, showering her with care.

I was like a failed experiment. Every mistake they made with me, they corrected for her.

I was ugly, silent, dim-witted, unwanted. She was beautiful, sweet-talking, clever, adored by all.

When I was diagnosed with depression, I gathered what little courage I had and told them. Mom lashed out, called me sick in the head, and accused me of being petty. If I was so capable, she said, I might as well die.

It wasn't until my sister pushed me off a high-rise that they found out, by sheer accident, that she wasn't their child at all.

I was their one and only biological child.

When Dad's affair was exposed, my parents took their divorce battle to court.

They had two children, so the judge decided each of them should take one.

Neither of them hesitated. They both chose my sister.

The judge hesitated instead and asked my sister to decide.

Fiona stood there in her little designer princess dress, our father on one side, our mother on the other.

Dad made his offer first. "Fiona, pick me. I can give you a better life. Haven't you always wanted a new tablet? I'll get you one tomorrow."

Mom noticed her shivering, took off her scarf, and wrapped it around her gently. "Fiona, you should stay with me. If your dad remarries, what will you do with a stepmother?"

And just like that, they started arguing again.

I stood in the corner, forgotten. A strange sense of awkwardness crept up on me, so I pulled up the zipper of my school jacket. The thin, faded fabric did nothing against the cold, and the wind slipped right through.

The courtroom was in chaos. Voices clashed.

Finally, the judge lost patience. He turned to them. "Neither of you wants custody of your eldest daughter?"

The room fell silent. An eerie, unnatural stillness.

My parent's gazes flickered, shifting uncomfortably. They didn't want to seem unfair, but they also didn't want to be the one stuck with me. They hesitated, stalling for time.

Now, everyone was staring at me. My throat tightened. I lowered my head, hoping no one would notice the ugly scars on my face.

Then Fiona spoke, leaving the matter to me. "Why don't you choose first, sis?"

The judge gave me an encouraging nod. "Who do you want to live with, Jolene?"

My parents looked at me, tense, as if afraid I might pick one of them.

I couldn't shrink back into silence anymore. I lowered my head and took my time before whispering, "I choose…"

I hesitated.

"Can I go to an orphanage instead?" I asked softly.

…

I never got to choose my parents, but now, I wanted to choose not to have them at all.

I would rather be an orphan.

Better that than living as a failed experiment.

When I was one, my parents were busy building their careers. They sent me to my grandma in the countryside and didn't take me back until four years later—only when Fiona had learned to talk.

They say children who are separated from their parents early may struggle to form close relationships. Maybe that's why I grew up distant, unable to be affectionate.

My parents found me cold and detached, so when they had a second child, they raised her by the book, doted on her personally, and nurtured a sweet, clingy little girl.

When I was six, Mom was too busy feeding Fiona to pour herself a glass of water. She told me to do it.

I was short and had to climb onto a stool to reach the kettle. I slipped. Boiling water spilled over my face, leaving hideous scars.

They learned their lesson.

From then on, Fiona never had to lift a finger. She grew up pampered, her hands untouched by work, her nails unchipped, her face radiant. My parents flaunted her beauty to everyone they met.

When people asked about me, their eldest daughter, they hesitated, as if remembering an unpleasant stain on their lives.

"She's got scars," they would joke with a laugh. "Wouldn't want to scare anyone by mentioning her."