I’ve always known since I was little, that a person could mean less than a dog. To my mom, I was worth far less than her precious dog. Her dog could stay by her side, soaking in her endless care. But me? When I was barely a month old, she sent me to the countryside to fend for myself. A fever, one she ignored, left my left leg permanently damaged. I didn’t cry, didn’t complain. Quietly, I erased all ties between her and me. But later, when she heard I’d found a new mom, she completely lost her mind. Content My name is Gabrielle Hackett. Gabe, for short. My name might as well mean “extra” because, to my career-driven mom and love-struck dad, their perfect little world never needed a kid like me. The year I was born, Mom’s career was soaring. She was set to perform at Lincoln Center, achieving her lifelong dream of being the prima ballerina she’d always aspired to be. When she first found out she was pregnant, she wanted to terminate. But her body couldn’t handle it. The doctors warned her that terminating the pregnancy could cause irreversible damage. That was a risk she wasn’t willing to take. Dad, hopelessly devoted to her, was terrified of losing her. “Once the baby’s born, we can hire a nanny. The baby won’t stop you from dancing,” he promised her. With Dad’s persuasion and the doctor’s reassurance, I—who was never supposed to exist—was brought into the world. However, during delivery, complications arose because of my oversized head. The doctors fought to save her life, but she was left paralyzed from the waist down, confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her days. Because of me, Mom’s career was destroyed. I became the villain in her story from the moment I was born. She never smiled at me, only met me with endless disdain and bitter words. To console her, once her health stabilized, Dad whisked her away for a vacation to help her recover. And me? They left me in the hospital’s incubator, completely forgotten. Thankfully, a kindhearted nurse called Dad to remind him to pick me up. But in the end, it wasn’t my parents who came for me—it was the nanny they’d hired. Throughout my infancy, my parents never once held me. Mom had plenty of milk to breastfeed me, but she wouldn’t. She’d pump it and pour it all down the drain instead. The nanny tried to persuade her. “Breastfeeding is good for the baby.” Mom sneered. “That thing isn’t good enough to drink my milk.” Maybe her cold, cutting voice upset me, but I cried endlessly in my bassinet. The nanny rushed to comfort me, but Mom was visibly annoyed. “Crying, crying, always crying! It’d be better if she just died already!” That was her go-to line. If not for my eyes—eyes that resembled hers so closely—even the nanny might have doubted I was her child. There are probably few kids in this world who, from birth, are showered with nothing but rejection. Mom made it an art. She’d instead I suffer than let herself endure the slightest inconvenience. But she didn’t know back then that life had a way of balancing the scales. The pain you spare yourself by neglecting your children will one day return to you tenfold.
My constant crying grated on Mom’s nerves so much that when I was only a month old, she packed me off to my grandmother, Dolores Whitaker, in the countryside. But Grandma didn’t love me either. Dad had married Mom against Grandma’s wishes. She despised Mom, blaming her for driving a wedge between them. Her hatred for Mom extended to me, Mom’s child. Living with Grandma meant sharing space with my cousin, Finnigan Wilder, who was two years older than me. Compared to Finn, my life was less than that of an abandoned puppy. Whenever Grandma took us out, she’d plop me on the ground while carrying Finn, gossiping with neighbors while I crawled aimlessly nearby. Once, while her attention was elsewhere, I crawled straight into the middle of a road and was nearly hit by an oncoming car. A kind stranger quickly scooped me up and returned me to Grandma. Her response? A hard slap on my back. “Wild little brat with no mother! If you’re so set on running off, just let the cars finish you!” I couldn’t even talk yet, but the pain made me cry out instinctively. Grandma didn’t soothe me. Instead, she angrily dragged me back home and locked me in a room until I cried myself unconscious. As I grew older and learned to walk, I knew obeying was the only way to avoid punishment. But obedience came at a cost: suffocating humiliation. While Finn got to eat meat, I was lucky to get the broth. When Finn got new clothes every few months, I was left with his torn and patched-up hand-me-downs. Even when it came to pocket money, Grandma had no trouble giving Finn coins for candy, but when I asked, I’d only get a scolding. “Go ask your mom! She makes all that money and doesn’t return a penny to help us. What good is she?” I didn’t know how to ask Mom for help. The only solution my childish mind could think of was sitting at Greenwood Orchard Trail every day, waiting for her to return. Most of what I knew about myself came from the whispered gossip of neighbors. Like how I must have been too disobedient for Mom to want me. Or how I wasn’t sent to preschool because “it wasn’t necessary.” I listened quietly, but my hope stayed stubborn. I kept waiting for Mom to return. The seasons changed, and the years passed. When I was six, during a summer as humid as any other in Clover Hill, my waiting finally paid off. But what I experienced that day was a pain I’ll never forget.
Early in the morning, after hearing that my parents were finally returning, I put on my cleanest dress and hurried to Greenwood Orchard Trail to wait for them. The neighborhood ladies who passed by had grown used to seeing me there. Occasionally, they’d tease me with their sharp tongues. “Gabe, waiting for your mom again? It’s been years. She doesn’t want you anymore, you know!” Most days, I’d bow my head like a scolded puppy, clutch my sleeves, and silently cry. But today, I stood tall, defiant hope swelling inside me. “She does want me! She’s coming back today!” A loud honk echoed in the distance, confirming my words like divine proof. I caught a glimpse of her in the passenger seat and ran as fast as I could toward the car. The vehicle stopped, and my mother, Evelyn Hackett, stepped out. It had been so long since I’d seen her that her voice sounded strangely soft. “Baby, slow down…” I thought she was calling me, and my heart soared. I ran even faster. But as I reached her, I froze. She wasn’t calling me. Gently, she reached back into the car and cradled a small, white dog in her arms. “Baby, the ground’s dirty. Let Mommy carry you, okay?” Her “baby” wasn’t me. It was the little dog swaddled in her arms. Its tiny body was covered in silky fur, and its head was adorned with two dainty pink bows clipped to its ears. The children in Clover Hill had never seen such an elegant dog before. I didn’t know the breed, but Grandma had always said, “A dog is just a dog, no matter how fancy. It’ll never be a person.” I stared at the dog, tears welling up uncontrollably. I didn’t even know why I was crying. Maybe I envied the pretty bows on its head. Mom had never given me anything so lovely. No, she’d never given me anything at all. I remembered her first video call to Grandma after she’d left me in the countryside. I’d purposely wandered into the camera’s view, hoping to see her face and get her attention. Instead, she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Why does she look worse every time I see her? She can’t possibly be my kid.” Her disdain pierced the screen like a dagger, straight to my chest. Maybe if I looked cleaner, I thought she’d like me better. So, at six years old, I learned to scrub clothes and wash shoes. In the freezing winters, my hands turned red and raw from the icy water, my knuckles cracking painfully so I could be present for her next video call. What did I get for my efforts? Grandma scoffed at me, saying I was only pretending to be hardworking so I wouldn’t get scolded. Mom glanced at my frostbitten cheeks on the call, her look of contempt even more profound than before. “She looks worse every time. What’s wrong with her?” She had no idea how much I longed for her to return day after day, season after season. And now that she was here, calling a dog “baby” while ignoring me completely, the pain hit harder than ever. At six years old, what did I know about jealousy or heartache? I just couldn’t stop crying. My sobs annoyed her immediately. “I told you we shouldn’t have come back. This is exactly why! All she does is cry—so annoying. She’s nothing like my Baby, so obedient and quiet!” As if understanding her words, the dog yapped in my direction, mocking me. Mom didn’t scold it. She scolded me instead. “Stop crying! Look, you’ve scared Baby!” I stared at her, struggling to hold back tears. My voice cracked as I whimpered, “Mommy…” She didn’t even glance at me. She turned her back, holding the dog tighter, and walked away. My father, Nathaniel Hackett, followed close behind her, carrying bags of treats and toys for the dog like her shadow. He, too, ignored me entirely. I was left in the middle of the path, dazed and forgotten. That’s when my cousin, Finn Wilder, snickered behind me. “Your mom’s something, huh? Treating a dog like her daughter. What’s so special about it?” Eight-year-old Finn was full of curiosity. When Mom wasn’t paying attention, he lured the dog away with a bone. Holding it in his hands, he teased it relentlessly. The dog snarled, baring its teeth at him. Startled, Finn flung it aside. The poor creature flailed in the air, landing awkwardly on its feet, only to stumble off the second-floor balcony. It hit the ground with a sickening thud. “Baby!” Mom’s scream tore through the yard. Finn bolted, leaving me standing there, too stunned to react. When Mom looked up, cradling her lifeless dog, her eyes met mine. “Gabe!” At that moment, I knew I was in deep trouble.
Mom’s wailing brought the whole household outside. She clutched her dog, her face red with grief, while Dad dragged me off the balcony and threw me to the ground. “It wasn’t me! It slipped and fell on its own!” I cried, trying to explain. But Mom’s glare cut through me like a knife. “Don’t you dare lie to me! From the moment we arrived, I could see you didn’t like Baby. But I didn’t think you’d be this cruel. She was only a year old! How could you kill something so innocent and sweet?” Her anger made her forget entirely that I was her child. I panicked, terrified she’d disown me, and fell to my knees. “Mommy, it wasn’t me! I didn’t push it…” She turned her back, hugging the dog closer, refusing to listen. “I hate kids who lie. If I’d known you’d turn out like this, I never would’ve had you.” Her words stabbed me more profoundly than any punishment ever could. Desperate, I blurted out an apology I didn’t mean. “Mom, I’m sorry! I just wanted to play with Baby. I didn’t mean for this to happen…” I thought admitting guilt would make her less angry, but it only gave her more ammunition. Turning to Dad, she raised her voice in accusation. “See? I told you she’s the one who killed Baby! And you still thought coming back to see her was a good idea. How could someone as perfect as us produce such a horrible child?” Convinced by her words, Dad began ushering her toward the car, leaving me behind. Frightened, I threw myself at her legs, clinging tightly. “Mommy, please don’t leave me! I swear I’ll be good!” I sobbed uncontrollably, but her expression didn’t soften. She walked away with Dad without glancing at me, leaving me in the dirt. I stumbled after them but collapsed after just a few steps, the world fading into darkness.
The fever that burned through me lingered for two weeks before it finally subsided. Grandma Dolores paraded around the neighborhood, bragging about her “effective homemade remedies.” What she didn’t mention were the awful side effects. It wasn’t until I started school that I noticed something was wrong. My left leg would sometimes go numb without warning. At first, the episodes were infrequent, so I didn’t think much of it or tell anyone. Why would I? I knew no one would care. It wasn’t until I graduated elementary school that the problem worsened. I started tripping over myself, my limp becoming noticeable. That’s when I realized just how serious it was. But by then, it was too late for treatment. Mom’s resentment only grew. Six years had passed since Baby’s death, and she had finally moved on. But she would never accept a daughter with a limp. I was nothing but a blemish to someone as obsessed with perfection as Evelyn Hackett. By then, I was used to it. I had grown so independent I hardly noticed her absence. I walked to school and back, lived on my schedule, and never relied on anyone. It wasn’t all bad. The only thread connecting me to my parents was the monthly allowance they sent. But when I entered middle school, even that tiny tie began to fray. Teenagers can be cruel, and I became the perfect target. A small, frail girl with a limp and no parents to stand up for her? I was easy prey. The bullies stuffed all kinds of disgusting things into my desk. Sometimes it was worms. Other times, it was frogs. But the creatures always shared one thing: their legs were broken. I knew they were mocking me, but I didn’t have the strength to fight back. Like the helpless frogs they left behind, the more I struggled, the more viciously they attacked. The worst incident happened when I found a dead centipede in my backpack. Its body was dry and shriveled, its legs entirely gone. It was horrifying. That day, I couldn’t hold back any longer. I ran to the teacher, sobbing as I told her what had been happening. The school took the bullying seriously. The teacher called the bullies’ parents—and my mom. Her response? It’s as cold as ever. “Why are they only picking on you? Maybe you should take a good look at yourself. Figure out what you’re doing wrong. If you keep causing trouble, just quit school. I don’t want you embarrassing me any further.” I shouldn’t have been surprised, but her words hit me like a punch to the gut. Her indifference emboldened my bullies even more. After a scolding from the school, they started taking my allowance every month as soon as it arrived. They didn’t care how I’d survive after. With no other choice, I started working in the school cafeteria, trading labor for meals. But even that wasn’t enough for them. Once they had spent all the money they had stolen from me, they pressured me to find other ways to earn more. “See that bar over there? Girls your age can make hundreds in a night dancing onstage.” “I heard your mom’s a dancer. Bet you’re just as good, huh?” I shook my head, stepping back instinctively. I wasn’t stupid. I knew I could never go to a place like that. But they didn’t care what I thought. When I tried to run, one grabbed my hair and yanked me back. Another kicked my leg, sending a jolt of pain through my limp. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to march right in there and do what we tell you, or you’re dead meat!” Gritting my teeth, I snapped back, “Kill me, then! I’m not going!” “Look at you, acting tough,” one of them sneered. “No, Dad,o who will save you now?” Their laughter echoed in my ears as they dragged me toward the bar. I stopped struggling. My vision dimmed, and I felt the last bit of hope leave me. I hated my weakness, but I understood even more clearly that their audacity came from knowing I had no parents to rely on. They were cruel, awful kids, yet their parents enabled them without limits, excusing their every action. And me? I worked hard, stayed obedient, and did everything right. I was the “good girl” every neighbor praised. But still, I was the girl with a mother who gave birth to me—but never raised me.
A low, steady voice broke through the air like a lifeline as we neared the bar. “Gabe, you’re late getting home. Don’t you know your brother worries about you?” We all turned. Standing by the side of the road was a tall, skinny teenager in a faded denim jacket. His clean-cut appearance and quiet strength were undeniable. “Your brother?” one of the bullies asked suspiciously. I hesitated, but seeing my chance, I nodded rapidly. “Yes, that’s my brother! You’d better let me go, or he’ll make you regret it!” I had someone to lean on for the first time and didn’t hesitate to use it. But my bluff was short-lived. One of them squinted at him and laughed. “You’re full of crap! That’s Lachlan Merritt! His dad drank himself to death, and his mom was bedridden. No way he’s your brother!” Lachlan Merritt. The name tickled something in my memory, but there wasn’t time to dwell on it. My lie was exposed, and the bullies yanked me forward again. Lachlan wasted no time. He charged forward like lightning, taking down two before anyone could react. The others scrambled to retaliate, but he held his ground, even against all six. By the time the bullies limped away, he was bleeding but unbowed. “Are you okay?” I whispered, holding out a tissue. He frowned, waving me off. “It’s nothing. Don’t make a fuss.” I grabbed his chin firmly, forcing him to face me. “You need to take care of small wounds. Leave them alone, and they’ll get worse!” I knew that better than anyone. If my fever had been appropriately treated, I wouldn’t have a limp today. He softened under my scolding. “How long has this been going on?” he asked. I shrugged, trying to downplay it. “Just a month or so.” He looked down, guilt shadowing his face. “This is my fault.” “What?” I frowned, confused. “How could it be your fault?” That’s when I learned the truth. Lachlan was a friend of my cousin, Finn. Before Finn left for culinary school, he’d asked Lachlan to look out for me. Out of guilt for what had happened with Baby and my resulting fever, Finn had carried the weight of responsibility ever since. While Finn’s guilt had grown into overcompensation, Mom’s disdain for me had only deepened.
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “295189”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster #现实主义Realistic #浪漫Romance #重生Reborn #校园School #励志Inspiring
Leave a Reply