I can see how much people love me. Literally. When my lab partner asked to copy my homework and I refused, his number plummeted to zero in a blink. The day I caught my boyfriend cheating, his stat took a nose-dive off a cliff. The only number that ever truly terrified me was my mother’s. I lived in constant dread of watching her percentage drop. Fortunately, for eighteen years, the flashing neon digits above her head remained a steady, unwavering 100. She was the kind of mother who would sever ties with judgmental relatives just to shield me, who would bring home the absolute best of everything and lay it at my feet. Countless times, I whispered a silent prayer of gratitude for having the best mother in the world. Until two weeks ago. She came to visit me at school. I looked up, and a sharp, blinding glare pierced my eyes: [85]. My chest tightened as if squeezed by an invisible fist. Panic set in. I spent the next fortnight in a manic spiral, picking apart every conversation, every grade, desperately searching for what I had done to disappoint her. Until today. Today, she brought home a girl. A girl in faded, oversized clothes, with large, trembling eyes. The biological daughter. Switched at birth eighteen years ago in a chaotic county hospital. My mother held my hand so tightly my knuckles turned white. Tears streamed down her face as she swore to me, “Diana, don’t be afraid. Even though she’s back, you will always, always be my favorite girl.” But the exact millisecond the word “favorite” left her lips, the digits above her head flickered violently, tumbling downward like a malfunctioning stock ticker: [20]. Looking up at that bleeding, crimson number, a strange, quiet relief washed over me. It wasn’t that I hadn’t been good enough. It was simply that I didn’t belong here anymore. … I gently pulled my hand from my mother’s grip. “Mom, I’m fine.” The girl stood in the marble entryway, looking so fragile and raw it made my heart ache. Her name was Bella. Eighteen years ago, in a busy hospital ward, a tired nurse on shift-change mixed up our ankle bands. Bella and I were sent home with the wrong families. My adoptive parents eventually struck gold in real estate, moving us into a sprawling estate in Westchester, while Bella stayed with my biological parents in a rundown Appalachian town, scraping by through eighteen years of poverty. “Come in, Bella. Come,” my mother said, her voice dropping to a soft, reverent whisper, as if she were handling blown glass. “This is your home now.” Bella stepped over the threshold. Her eyes darted from the ten-foot oil painting in the foyer to the dripping crystal chandelier, then down to the polished marble floors. Her fingers instinctively clawed at the frayed cuffs of her sweater. My mother noticed. She leaned down, closing her manicured hands over Bella’s rough ones. “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart. All of this… it’s yours now.” It was an exquisitely tender gesture. I stood frozen in the hallway, trying to remember the last time she had held my hand with that kind of desperate, protective warmth. I couldn’t. After dinner, my mother led Bella upstairs. “Bella, I’ve put together a room for you. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.” She threw open the double doors of the south-facing guest suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a soaking tub. It was the crown jewel of our guest wing. Bella hovered at the threshold, shifting her weight. “This… this is too big. I don’t think I can sleep here. Just give me a small closet or something.” Her voice was thick with genuine, overwhelming humility. My mother pulled her into a tight embrace. “You’ve suffered for eighteen years, my sweet girl. I want to give you the world to make up for it.” She guided Bella through the room, sweeping open the double doors of the closet. “Tomorrow, we’re going to Fifth Avenue. We’ll get your measurements taken, and we’ll have your wardrobe custom-tailored every season.” Bella didn’t say a word. She bit her lower lip, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. That was all it took to break my mother. She pulled Bella to her chest, her own voice cracking with a maternal agony. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry I let you suffer out there for so long.” Bella buried her face in my mother’s shoulder, her frame trembling with quiet sobs. I leaned against the doorframe, watching the tableau play out. Above my mother’s head, the red numbers flickered again. From [20], they ticked down to [17]. I turned on my heel and walked back to my own room. Before bed, there was a soft knock on my door. “Diana,” my mother murmured. She sat on the edge of my mattress, taking my hand in hers. “I know this is incredibly hard on you. But Bella… she’s had such a brutal life. I have to make it right.” She looked at me, her eyes still red and swollen. “You’re the older sister here. Can you help me look after her? Please?” “Of course, Mom.” When I said yes, the number above her head didn’t budge. A cold, static [17]. She let out a long sigh of relief, leaning down to press a soft kiss to my forehead. “My good, sensible Diana. I knew I could count on you.” She stood up and left. Her soft footsteps padded down the hallway, but instead of turning toward the master wing, they veered off, slipping into Bella’s room. Through the thin drywall, her muffled voice carried over to me. “Bella, sweetheart? Are the blankets warm enough? Do you want me to stay with you tonight?” I stared blankly at the ceiling. Quietly, without my permission, tears began to track down my temples. A week after Bella arrived, my mother enrolled her in my school. Oakridge Prep was the most prestigious private academy in the state, boasting a tuition of forty thousand dollars a year, populated entirely by the heirs of old money and political dynasties. The rumors had spread faster than wildfire. When I walked into homeroom on Monday morning, every eye in the room locked onto me like heat-seeking missiles. The first one to say something to my face was Brittany. She sat directly behind me; her father was a ruthless real estate mogul, and she had inherited his sharp, cutting tongue. “Well, well. If it isn’t Diana Westbrook,” Brittany drawled, propping her designer boots onto her desk. “So, word on the street is you’re a counterfeit. I heard the real Westbrook daughter actually has some decent genes.” I ignored her, unpacking my binder. “Oh, come on, don’t be like that,” she whispered, leaning over my shoulder, her perfume cloying and suffocating. “What does that make you now? A squatter? You’ve been sitting in her throne for eighteen years. Don’t you think it’s time to pay rent?” “Mind your own business, Brittany.” “Just making conversation.” She smirked, leaning back in her chair. “It’s just that your social stock just took a major hit. We all need to know where we stand with you now, right?” I gripped my pen so hard the plastic groaned under my knuckles. Between periods, the whispers in the hallway were intentionally, performatively loud. “Did you hear? Her biological parents are literally blue-collar townies in West Virginia.” “So those Chanel bags and Saint Laurent boots she wore last semester… she bought all of that with someone else’s trust fund?” “Ugh. If I were her, I’d have crawled into a hole and died of embarrassment by now.” I quickened my pace, keeping my gaze fixed on the floor, pretending the words weren’t tearing through me. But the real blow didn’t come from the bullies. It came when I realized my best friend had already jumped ship. Her name was Lauren. We had been inseparable since sixth grade. Seven years of sleepovers, shared secrets, and late-night panic attacks. On Wednesday, I went to find her at lunch. From across the cafeteria, I spotted her sitting at our usual table by the window. Sitting across from her was Bella. They were laughing. Lauren’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second when she saw me approaching. “Diana! Hey! Come sit down.” I slipped into the booth beside her. Bella offered me a soft, timid smile. “Hi, Diana.” Lauren pushed her plate of chicken tenders toward Bella. “Eat up, Bella. You’re practically skeletal. We need to fatten you up.” She turned to me, her expression a mix of guilt and forced cheerfulness. “Bella doesn’t really know anyone yet. I figured I’d show her around, help her get adjusted.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Sure.” Throughout lunch, Lauren kept her focus entirely on Bella, asking about her life in West Virginia, her favorite music, whether she wanted to go to the mall this weekend. Bella answered every question with a quiet, fragile gratitude. “You’re so nice to me, Lauren. I’ve never been to a place like this. I feel so out of my depth…” Lauren beamed, practically glowing with the satisfaction of being a savior. She threw an arm around Bella’s shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry about it. If anyone gives you trouble, you come straight to me. I’ve got your back.” I sat beside them, chewing on dry food that tasted like cardboard. By the time the bell rang, Lauren hadn’t directed more than three sentences to me. That afternoon, I texted her: “Hey, still down for the gallery opening this Saturday?” Her reply came back almost instantly: “Actually, I promised Bella I’d take her shopping this weekend. Next time!” She had never canceled on me before. Never. On Friday, I stood by the school gates, waiting for our family driver. Bella came jogging up behind me, breathless, her cheeks flushed pink. She reached out and lightly caught my sleeve. “Diana, wait. Lauren is taking me to get a new phone tomorrow. Can you please come with us?” Her face was a mask of sweet, earnest pleading. But as she let go of my arm, I caught the tiniest, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her lips. A flicker of triumph. I kept my voice flat. “I have plans.” “Oh. Okay,” she said softly. She didn’t press. Instead, she spun around and skipped back toward Lauren, who was waiting near the parking lot. They linked arms and walked away. I climbed into the back of the town car and closed my eyes. I could feel my life, my relationships, slipping through my fingers like dry sand. No matter how hard I clenched my fists, I couldn’t hold onto any of it. On Monday, I finally received the recommendation letter I had been dreaming of. My gut instinct, a relic of eighteen years of habit, was to share the joy with my mother. I had been preparing my application for Oxford University since my sophomore year. I had taken the SATs twice, completed two research programs with Columbia professors, and won awards in four national academic competitions. And now, I had the golden ticket: a personal recommendation letter written by the headmaster himself. Only one student per graduating class received it. When I got home that evening, the excitement was practically vibrating under my skin. But when I walked into the living room, my mother was already waiting for me. The sealed envelope containing my letter was resting on the marble coffee table. “Diana, sit down. I need to talk to you about something,” she said, her expression tight and conflicted. “Bella’s education in West Virginia was… lacking, to say the least. She doesn’t have the grades to get into a top-tier state school here. I want to send her abroad, but she has no extracurriculars, no research papers, nothing.” She looked up at me, her eyes pleading. “Diana… can you let Bella have this recommendation letter?” I stared at her, convinced I had misheard. “Mom, I’ve spent two years building my portfolio for this.” “I know, I know,” she said, catching my hands. “But you’re brilliant, Diana. Your SAT scores are perfect. You could get into any Ivy League school on your own merit. Bella isn’t like you. Without this letter, she has no shot at a future.” “This is my dream, Mom. I earned this.” “Diana, please. It’s not that I don’t care about your hard work—” “Then don’t ask me to give it away,” I snapped. It was the first time in my life I had ever spoken back to her. My mother’s expression instantly hardened. The warmth vanished from her eyes, replaced by a cold, sharp distance. “Diana Westbrook,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “Even if you keep that letter, who do you think is paying your tuition? Fifty thousand dollars a year. Do you have that kind of cash lying around?” I froze. My throat closed up. “Every single thing you’ve eaten, worn, and used for eighteen years was paid for by our money. Bella is my biological child. She suffered in poverty while you lived in luxury. If I want to give her a chance at a real education, is that really so terrible of me?” The look she gave me was stripped of all maternal warmth. It was the gaze of a creditor collecting a debt. “If you feel so hard done by, then fund your own life.” I stood there, the blood draining from my face. My whole body went numb. “Fine,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “If you think you’re so independent, then don’t touch a single dime of our money,” she said, standing up and pointing a perfectly manicured finger toward the foyer. “Get out. Don’t come back until you’re ready to apologize.” I looked up. The number above her head had dropped to a sickening, bleeding [6]. I swallowed the tears threatening to spill, grabbed my backpack, and walked out into the cold night. I spent that night huddled on a bench in a public park, shivering. The next afternoon, a text came through from my mother. “Diana, I was too harsh yesterday. Come home. Bella’s welcome-home party is tonight, and I want you there. We’re a family, we can work this out.” My resolve crumbled. I told myself she was still my mother, that eighteen years of love couldn’t just vanish. I went back. The party was an extravagant affair at a luxury hotel, with over two hundred guests from Westchester’s elite. Bella stood on the elevated stage, draped in a custom-designed silk gown, bathed in a warm spotlight. My mother held her hand, raising it slightly as she addressed the crowd. “This is my biological daughter, Bella. Today, she is finally home.” The room erupted into thunderous applause. I stood in the dim shadow of the back corner, wearing a simple black dress I’d hastily pulled from my closet. Up on stage, my mother was practically glowing with pride, her arm wrapped tightly around Bella’s shoulders. The number floating above her head was [5]. Halfway through the evening, I went to the restroom to escape the noise. But as I pushed the heavy door open, I froze. Resting on the marble vanity was a delicate diamond necklace. It was a Tiffany pendant—the very one my mother had given me for my seventeenth birthday. I knew I had left it in my jewelry box at home this morning. How was it here? Suddenly, a sharp gasp sounded behind me. “Oh my god!” Bella stood in the doorway, flanked by three of our mother’s wealthy friends. Her eyes were wide, staring at the vanity. “Diana… that’s the necklace Mom gave me as a welcome gift. Why do you have it?” “What?” “I left it in the powder room earlier, and when I went back, it was gone. I’ve been looking everywhere for it…” Bella’s eyes welled with tears, her voice trembling. “Diana… did you… did you take it by mistake?” She didn’t use the word “stole.” But she didn’t have to. The silent accusations from the women standing behind her were loud enough. “I didn’t touch your necklace,” I said, my voice hardening. “This is my—” “What’s going on in here?” my mother’s voice cut through the tension. She walked in, her gaze darting from the diamond pendant to Bella’s tear-stained face. “Diana, why do you have Bella’s necklace?” “This isn’t her necklace, Mom. This is the one you gave me last year—” “Don’t lie to me!” my mother snapped, her brow furrowing deep. “I bought this piece last week specifically for Bella.” She snatched the necklace off the counter and flipped the pendant. Engraved on the back was a small, delicate letter “B”. Not my initials. Bella’s. It wasn’t mine. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. Bella whispered, “Maybe Diana just got confused… it’s okay. Please don’t be mad at her.” The more gracious Bella tried to appear, the sharper the glares from the onlookers became. My mother handed the necklace back to Bella, then turned her full attention to me. There was no rage in her eyes. Instead, there was something far worse, something that suffocated me from the inside out: utter disappointment. “Diana, is it really so impossible for you to share this life with her?” she asked, her voice quiet but heavy. “I am so incredibly disappointed in you.” Above her head, the digital display flickered violently, crashing from [6] straight down to [1]. I stared at that [1]. A cold, hysterical laugh escaped my lips. I spun around and walked out of the restroom, and then out of the hotel. When I reached the lobby, I stopped and looked back one last time. The heavy oak doors of the ballroom were shut, but the muffled swell of classical music and polite laughter leaked through. Bella was in there, basking in the light and the blessings of my former life. And I was out here in the dark. No longer a Westbrook. That night, I packed a single suitcase of my own belongings. I spent the night at a cheap motel near the highway, and the next morning, I bought a one-way bus ticket to West Virginia. It was a grueling six-hour ride. The highway eventually gave way to winding mountain roads, the lush pine trees of the Appalachians closing in around us. My phone signal steadily dropped from four bars to one, before blinking out entirely. The bus sputtered to a halt in a fading, dusty mining town. I paid a local guy twenty bucks to take me the rest of the way on the back of his pickup truck. When we pulled up to the edge of the dirt road, I saw a middle-aged woman standing by a rusty mailbox. Her skin was deeply tanned and weathered from years of outdoor work, her hands rough and red. She was wearing a bright red winter coat that was clearly brand new; the paper price tag was still dangling from her sleeve. She was clutching a wrinkled school portrait—my photo. She kept looking up from the paper, frantically scanning the road. The moment our truck stopped and I climbed down, she froze. The photograph slipped from her fingers, fluttering into the dirt. “Diana?” she breathed, her voice cracking. I looked up at her head. Above her weathered hair, a soft, warm green number hovered: [83]. We had never met. Not once in eighteen years. Yet her love for me was already at eighty-three percent. “Mom,” I said. The word felt heavy and foreign on my tongue. Martha Greer’s tears spilled instantly. She lunged forward, throwing her arms around me and pulling me against her chest. There was no expensive French perfume. No soft cashmere. She smelled of cheap laundry detergent, woodsmoke, and sweat. “My baby… my baby is home,” she sobbed, her entire body shaking. Her calloused hands cupped the back of my head, holding me so tightly as if she feared I might evaporate if she let go. Their house was a small, wood-plank cottage with a tin roof, but inside, it was meticulously clean. On the worn wooden kitchen table, six steaming dishes were carefully laid out. A quiet, broad-shouldered man walked out of the kitchen carrying the final platter. His hands were thick with callouses, coal dust permanently embedded under his fingernails. When he saw me, his hands trembled, and he nearly dropped the dish. He set it down quickly, then wiped his palms on his stained apron over and over again. “Eat,” he muttered, his voice incredibly raspy. Just that one word. I glanced up. Above his head: [85]. Martha pulled me down onto a wooden chair, immediately piling food onto my plate. “We didn’t know what you liked,” she said, her eyes shining. “I made your dad buy everything we could find at the market. Try the trout—he caught it fresh from the creek this morning.” I took a bite of the fish. It was full of small bones, but it was incredibly sweet and fresh. “It’s delicious,” I whispered. Martha beamed, quickly standing up to ladle some soup for me. I lowered my head, and a hot tear slipped quietly into my bowl. That afternoon, Martha insisted on walking me down the town’s single main road. To every neighbor we passed, she proudly declared, “This is my daughter! My real girl!” Her smile was deep, carving lines into her face, far more radiant than my adoptive mother’s polished smile at the gala. Her number ticked up to [89]. Still rising. At dusk, she boiled a large pot of water on the stove and poured it into a plastic tub for me to soak my feet. “The mountain air gets cold at night,” she said softly. “Keep your feet warm so you don’t catch a chill.” I slipped my feet into the warm water, feeling the heat rise through my bones. At that moment, my phone buzzed. A single bar of signal had finally found its way through the valley. A deluge of notifications flooded my screen. Thirty-four missed calls from Catherine Westbrook. And right before my eyes, the number representing her love began to fluctuate wildly: [19]… [67]… [82]… still climbing.
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