Chapter 4: Monster’s Lair

On the way to my new home with my biological parents, I cried the whole time. The car was silent except for the hum of the engine and my sniffling. I felt the urge to turn back, to beg them to take me home, but the words stuck in my throat.

The two of them thought I was touched, and kept comforting me. Mom handed me tissues, Dad adjusted the heat. They whispered to each other about how sensitive I was, how sweet it was that I was so moved.

But only God knew—I was scared out of my wits.

Before I left, my sister had given me a crash course in switched-daughter stories. She pulled me aside, her voice low and urgent, as if we were plotting a prison escape. She told me every pitfall, every trope. "Don't eat anything weird, don't trust the step-siblings, keep your phone on at all times."

In those stories, the real daughter always has it the worst. I remembered all the stories: girls shunned at dinner, left out of family photos, and whispered about behind closed doors. The real daughter was always the outsider.

Even after she’s recognized and brought home, the parents still dote on the fake daughter who grew up with them, and dislike the real daughter for being uncouth and wild. I pictured myself in hand-me-down clothes, sitting at the edge of a long table, everyone’s backs turned. It was the kind of loneliness you could feel in your bones.

From the oldest to the youngest, even the housekeeper and the driver, no one likes the real daughter. They’d make me do chores they never assigned anyone else, ignore me when I asked for help, and talk about me in the kitchen, assuming I couldn’t hear.

She gets ignored, bullied, or even abused. I imagined tripping over invisible lines, being the punchline to cruel jokes, and crying myself to sleep at night.

At the slightest provocation, they want her kidney or her heart. It was a running joke in my sister’s favorite drama, but in my mind, it became a real threat. I pictured myself waking up in a hospital room, surrounded by strangers.

Sometimes she’s even shipped off to some sketchy island or sent to a cult. My imagination ran wild—tropical islands with no cell service, strange rituals in candlelit basements. I shivered and pulled my jacket tighter.

Basically, she’s skinned alive and left half-dead. Every horror story, every bad ending, played out in my head on a loop. I tried to breathe, but my heart pounded against my ribs.

……

I’ve always been timid. My brother called me “scaredy-cat” all through elementary school. I once fainted at the sight of a chicken loose in the kitchen. Mom had to coax me out from under the table.

Afraid of chickens at three, afraid of dogs at five, afraid of tall kids at ten. My brother still teases me about the time I hid behind the vending machine in third grade when the school mascot came by.

I grew up the same way—bullied by others, but never daring to fight back. All I could do was run home and cry to my brother and sister. They always had my back, no matter how silly my fears seemed. My sister gave me pep talks, my brother let me win at video games when I needed a boost.

Now you’re telling me I’m the tragic real daughter from those stories? It’s not my parents coming to get me, it’s like the ghosts from the underworld.

Every bump in the road felt like an omen, every glance from my new parents a possible threat. I was on edge, jumping at every sound.

The place I’m going isn’t a home—it’s a monster’s lair. The house loomed in my mind, full of dark corners and hostile eyes, a place where I didn’t belong.

……

I was scared out of my mind. I pressed my forehead against the window, willing myself to be brave, but all I wanted was to turn back the clock.