Three Years Betrayed

Sunshine Children’s Home was bustling with noise. Colorful banners were strung across the courtyard.

Dorian and Summer, presented as a model philanthropic family, stood with Cody, preparing for a media interview.

I avoided the front entrance and climbed over the iron fence into the back courtyard. It was damp and cold, thick with the smell of mildew.

On a set of steps in the corner, I saw a little girl no older than three. She wore thin, worn-out clothes, shivering in the wind.

In her hand, she clutched half a hardened, cold chunk of bread. Her exposed arms were covered in bruises, layer upon layer of them.

She shrank back and looked up.

Those eyes. That face…

It was exactly like my childhood photos.

My limbs went weak.

Just then, the private investigator’s message popped up.

"Ma’am, I got the intake record from that year. The signature belongs to Dorian Vantor. The girl’s name is Quinn."

I stared at the proof on my screen, then at my daughter, who was covered in wounds. Quinn was skin and bones.

I clenched my fists.

From the front courtyard came loud applause. Dorian and Summer stood under the spotlight, posing for photos. Cody wore a little suit, holding imported chocolates.

Meanwhile, Quinn…

A heavyset caretaker yanked Quinn by the hair, dragging her toward a dark storage shed.

"There are important guests out front. Get lost and stay out of sight."

I charged forward, kicking the caretaker aside and pulling Quinn tightly into my arms.

She trembled violently, instinctively shielding her head. "Don’t hit me… Quinn will be good…"

I held her tighter. Eyes burning, I rushed toward the stage in the front courtyard and threw the photo of the intake record at Dorian’s face.

"Dorian, you monster! You threw my daughter into this place just to get yourself a son, and let her be abused."

The crowd erupted. Cameras swung toward us instantly.

Dorian’s face drained of color. He raised his hands to block the cameras, scrambling to explain. "Lenora, listen to me. Mom said girls couldn’t carry on the family name. I had no choice…"

The director of the children’s home, Walter Briggs, rushed out, pointing at me and shouting, "Security! Get this crazy woman out of here. That kid doesn’t belong to anyone. She’s making things up."

Several guards rushed forward, pinning my arms behind my back.

To protect her image as a wealthy socialite, Summer gritted her teeth and stepped forward. She reached out and grabbed Quinn by the hair.

"What nonsense are you spouting? Who knows where this stray came from? Throw her out."

"Don’t touch my daughter!" I struggled desperately, but the guards forced me to the ground.

In the chaos, Summer seized the moment. She shoved Quinn toward the edge of the steps. "Go to hell, brat."

Quinn fell. The back of her head struck the sharp edge of a concrete planter with a dull crack.

Blood poured out, staining the water pooled on the ground. Her eyes fluttered open weakly. She looked at me, pinned on the ground.

Her lips moved slightly. "Mom… it hurts…"

While her small hand fell limp, her eyes closed.

Dorian’s legs gave out. He dropped to his knees.

Summer let out a cold laugh. "If she’s dead, she’s dead. We’ll just pay for it."

The cameras kept flashing.

No one stepped forward to save my daughter. I crawled toward her, blood rising in my throat.

"Quinn! Someone help her!"