All my life, I felt like I didn’t belong in my own family. My mother adored my sisters, showering them with love and attention, but when it came to me, she acted like I was a burden. The reason? I looked too much like the man she wanted to forget. When I finally learned the truth about my real father, my entire world changed—but not in the way my mother expected.
People say that children suffer for the mistakes of their parents. My mother made sure that was true. Even though she never said it outright, I always felt different, like an outsider in my own home. And one day, I learned why.
I grew up with two older sisters, Kira and Alexa. From the moment I was old enough to understand, I noticed the difference in how my mother treated us.
She adored Kira and Alexa. She bought them brand-new clothes, expensive dresses, and stylish shoes. They had the newest toys, and she took them out for ice cream on warm summer evenings, their laughter filling the air as they walked hand in hand.
She brushed their hair gently, kissed their foreheads at night, and whispered, “I love you, my darlings. You mean the world to me.”
But me? I got their old clothes, worn-out shoes, and broken toys they no longer wanted. My mother never tucked me into bed or read me bedtime stories. I didn’t get hugs or kind words. Instead, I got orders.
“Olivia, wash the dishes.”
“Olivia, mop the floor.”
“Olivia, don’t just stand there! Do something useful!”
It felt like I was nothing more than a servant in my own home. My mother’s voice was always sharp when she spoke to me, and her eyes held no warmth. No one cared that I was treated differently.
My father—well, the man I thought was my father—tried to protect me. Sometimes, when my mother’s words cut too deep, he would pull me into a hug.
“You’re special, Olivia,” he would say. “You matter.”
But as I grew older, he did that less and less. His warmth faded into silence, and then the arguments began.
One night, I heard them fighting in the kitchen.
“I’m telling you, she’s your daughter!” my mother shouted.
My father’s voice was sharp, filled with anger. “How can she be mine?! We both have dark hair, and she’s blonde! Her eyes are blue!”
“That happens! Maybe someone in the family had lighter features!” my mother insisted, her voice rising in desperation.
“Then let’s do a paternity test!” he yelled.
After that, their arguments became a routine. They fought almost every night, and it always ended the same way—my mother crying, accusing my father of not trusting her, and him backing down. But I never forgot those words.
By the time I turned fourteen, I could barely stand being home. I got a job, not just for the money, but to escape. With my first paycheck, I bought a DNA test.
And when the results arrived, everything fell apart.
One evening, I came home and found my father standing in the living room, holding an envelope. My stomach twisted when I saw my name printed across it.
His eyes locked onto mine. “What is this?” His voice was sharp. “Why is this letter addressed to you?”
Panic surged through me. I took a shaky step forward. “Give it back,” I said, reaching for it.
He pulled it away, his grip tightening. “Explain first.”
My hands trembled. My throat felt dry. “It’s… a DNA test.”
Without another word, he tore open the envelope. His eyes scanned the page, and his face darkened with rage.
“SIMONA!” he roared, his voice echoing through the house.
My mother rushed in, her expression innocent. “What is it, darling?”
“Olivia, go to your room,” my father ordered, his voice shaking.
“But—”
“NOW!”
I turned and ran, my heart pounding. I didn’t need to hear the rest of their conversation to know what the test had revealed.
“She’s not mine?!” my father’s furious voice boomed through the thin walls.
“It doesn’t matter!” my mother snapped back.
“It matters to me! You lied to me for fourteen years!”
“You don’t understand! I had no choice!”
His anger filled the entire house. I pressed my hands over my ears, but I could still hear the truth. My father wasn’t my real father. My mother had cheated on him.
Days later, he tested my sisters. Alexa was his, but Kira wasn’t. After that, he started packing his bags.
I stood in the hallway, my heart breaking. “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. And after he left, my mother’s resentment toward me turned into outright hatred.
“This is your fault,” she hissed. “If you didn’t look so much like him, none of this would’ve happened.”
From that moment on, she barely spoke to me unless she needed something.
“Olivia, clean the house.”
“Olivia, do the laundry.”
“Olivia, make yourself useful!”
But Kira? She never had to lift a finger. My mother still adored her. She’d tuck Kira’s hair behind her ear and whisper, “My beautiful girl. You look just like me.”
I was invisible—except when there was work to do.
Then, one day, my mother walked in and coldly announced, “You will start paying rent.”
My chest tightened. “What? I already buy my own groceries!”
“You have a job. It’s only fair,” she said simply.
“Then make Alexa and Kira pay too!” I demanded. “Why only me?! Why do you treat me like this?!”
Her eyes darkened. “Because you ruined my life!” she screamed.
The words hit like a slap. My throat burned, but no words came. I turned and ran to my room, slamming the door behind me.
But it didn’t matter. She never changed her mind. I had no choice. I paid rent.
My sisters made things worse. Alexa threw my food away, cut holes in my shirts, and once, she even stole my entire paycheck.
“Why are you doing this?!” I cried.
“Because Dad left because of you!” she screamed. “If you had just looked like Mom! Like Kira!”
As soon as I finished high school, I knew I had to leave. My manager at work saw my determination and helped me get a job at his son’s company. With my first paychecks, I got a small apartment and moved out.
For the first time in my life, I had peace. But my mother and sisters wouldn’t leave me alone. They only contacted me when they wanted money.
One day, I had enough. “I’ll give you money if you tell me my real father’s name.”
She smirked. “His name is Rick. Go ahead. Waste your time.”
She gave me a fake address, but I didn’t stop until I found him. And when I knocked on his door, he didn’t hesitate.
“You’re my daughter,” he said, his voice full of certainty.
And for the first time in my life, I finally felt wanted.
