All my life, I felt like an outsider in my own family. My mother adored my sisters but treated me like a burden. The reason? I looked too much like the man she wished to forget. When I finally discovered the truth about my real father, everything changed—but not in the way she expected.
They say children pay for the sins of their parents. My mother made sure that was true. Though she never admitted it, I always felt like a stranger in my own home, and there was a reason for that.
I grew up with two older sisters, Kira and Alexa. I spent my childhood watching how our mother treated them.
She loved them openly. She bought them expensive clothes, gave them brand-new toys, and took them out for ice cream on warm summer days. She brushed their hair, kissed their foreheads, and told them, “You are my precious girls. I love you so much.”
Meanwhile, I got their worn-out clothes, their old toys, and their leftovers. I didn’t get bedtime stories or hugs. Instead, I got orders.
“Olivia, clean the kitchen.”
“Olivia, fold the laundry.”
“Olivia, stop standing around and do something useful!”
I was a servant in my own home, and nobody seemed to care.
My father was different. He tried to protect me. I remember the times he pulled me into a hug when my mother’s words cut too deep. He would stroke my hair and whisper, “You are special, Olivia. You matter. Don’t ever forget that.”
But as I grew older, he did that less and less. His voice lost its strength, and his kindness faded into silence. Then, the arguments started.
“I’m telling you, she’s your daughter!” my mother screamed.
“How can she be mine?! We are both brunettes, and she’s a blonde with blue eyes!” my father shouted back.
“That happens! Maybe someone in the family had lighter features!” my mother insisted.
“Then let’s do a paternity test!” my father yelled.
The fights became a routine. They always ended the same way—my mother cried, accused my father of hating her, and he backed down. But I never forgot those words.
By fourteen, I couldn’t stand being home. I got a job, not just for money, but to escape.
With my first paycheck, I bought a DNA test. And when the results came, everything fell apart.
One evening, I stepped through the door and saw my father standing in the living room. He held an envelope in his hand, his eyes locked on my name printed across the front.
“What is this?” he asked, his voice sharp. “Why is this letter addressed to you?”
My stomach dropped. I took a step forward. “Give it back,” I said, reaching for it.
He pulled it away. “Explain first,” he demanded, his grip tightening on the paper.
I hesitated, my hands trembling. “It’s… a DNA test.”
He didn’t wait. He tore it open. His eyes scanned the page. Then, his face twisted with rage.
“SIMONA!” he roared.
My mother rushed in. “What is it, darling?”
“Olivia, go to your room,” my father ordered.
“But—”
“NOW!” he shouted.
I turned and left, my heart pounding. I didn’t have to guess what the results were.
My parents’ voices carried through the thin walls, each word cutting deeper than the last.
“She’s not mine?!” my father shouted.
“It doesn’t matter!” my mother snapped.
“It matters to me! You lied to me, Simona! For fourteen years!”
“You don’t understand! I had no choice!”
Days later, he tested my sisters. Alexa was his, but Kira wasn’t. I watched from the hallway as he packed his bags.
“You’re leaving?” I whispered.
He didn’t look at me. “I have to.”
He filed for divorce, paid child support for Alexa, and cut ties with the rest of us.
After he left, my mother’s hatred for me grew. “This is your fault,” she hissed. “If you didn’t look so much like him, none of this would have happened.”
She ignored me unless she needed something. “Olivia, wash the dishes. Olivia, mop the floor.” I was invisible until it was time to clean.
One day, she walked into the room with her arms crossed. “I’ve decided you will start paying rent,” she said.
I blinked. “What? I already buy my own groceries!”
“You earn money. It’s only fair.”
I clenched my fists. “Then make Alexa and Kira pay too! Why only me?!”
Her eyes darkened. “Because you ruined my life!” she shouted.
That night, I cried until my chest ached. But I had no choice. I paid rent.
As soon as I finished high school, I moved out. My old manager helped me get a job, and I rented a small apartment.
For the first time, I felt free.
But my mother and sisters never disappeared. They always found a reason to call. They never asked how I was. They only wanted money.
One day, when my mother came knocking again, I asked, “Tell me my real father’s name.”
She scoffed. “He doesn’t want you.”
I crossed my arms. “Then I won’t give you any more money.”
With a scowl, she wrote a name: Rick. But she lied about the address.
Furious, I stormed into her house. “You gave me the wrong address!”
“Because he doesn’t want you!” she snapped. “You make everyone’s life harder!”
I refused to back down. She finally gave me the real address.
When I knocked on Rick’s door, a middle-aged man opened it. His eyes widened.
“Are you Rick?” I asked, my voice unsteady.
He nodded. “Yes.”
I swallowed. “I—”
“You’re my daughter,” he said before I could finish.
Tears filled my eyes. “You knew?”
“Of course,” he said, stepping aside. “Come in.”
His home felt warm. Pictures lined the walls—family vacations, birthday parties. A life I had never been part of.
“I paid child support until you turned eighteen,” he said. “But your mother told me you hated me.”
I gasped. “She told me you didn’t want me.”
Rick’s jaw tightened. “That’s not true. You’re my daughter. I wanted you.”
For the first time, I felt safe. We stayed in touch. He introduced me to his family, and they welcomed me without hesitation.
One day, Rick handed me a folder. “It’s a house. It’s yours.”
Tears streamed down my face. No one had ever cared for me like this.
When my mother and Kira tried to move in, claiming they were homeless, I finally stood up for myself. “Get out!”
They smirked, thinking I wouldn’t act. But I called the police.
They ran.
That was the last time I saw them.
And I had never felt so free.
