I’m different from most people. I have three sets of parents. My biological parents abandoned me because I was a girl. My adoptive parents abandoned me because I wasn’t their own flesh and blood. They all threw me away like trash. Only Mom and Dad—the ones who chose me—loved me unconditionally. Years later, when I made a name for myself, those first two couples came knocking on my door, eagerly calling me their "darling daughter." I just smiled. "Who are you?" 1 That winter, the first snow fell on the small town of Oak Creek. My adoptive mother, Mrs. Turner, went to the creek behind the house to wash some rags and saw a bundle floating downstream. In that narrow creek, whenever the water rose, unwanted things would float by. The bundle looked thick, made of expensive fabric and cotton. She hooked it with a stick, thinking she’d bury whatever was inside but keep the cloth and cotton. Muttering a prayer, she dug a shallow pit in the frozen ground. Just as the dirt was about to cover me, I kicked my tiny legs and let out a weak cry. She was startled and quickly picked me up, wrapping me tighter. She and Mr. Turner had been married for five years without children. They wanted a boy to carry on the family name, but back then, adoption was expensive. She put me in a laundry basket, took me home, and fed me a bowl of warm oatmeal. After I finished, I grinned at her. Under the dim light, Mr. Turner smoked his cigarette and stared at me for a long time, finally sighing, "Forget it, maybe this is fate." "Let's call her Lana." A plain name, easy to keep alive. Mr. Turner was a big, silent man; Mrs. Turner was petite but had a fiery temper. He took me around to neighbors, begging for formula or milk. The town elders said I grew up on the "charity of a hundred families," destined for a tough but lucky life. In the summer, when they worked in the cornfields, they put me in a basket under the shade of an old oak tree. When the ice cream truck drove by, Mr. Turner would buy two popsicles. One for me, one for Mrs. Turner. She would scold him for wasting money, then break off a big chunk of mine to give to him, claiming I ate too slow and it would melt. I thought every day would be like this forever. But when I was four, Mrs. Turner got pregnant. 2 As her belly grew, the neighbors would tease me: "When your mom has a baby boy, they won't want you anymore." "You're just a girl, and you were picked out of a river!" I didn't believe them. I ran home, wanting my parents to tell me I was their child, their darling forever. Crossing the porch, I tripped and fell flat on my face. Sadness and fear made me wail loudly. I cried for a long time, but no one came. I wiped my tears and heard laughter inside the house. I sobbed and walked in. Mrs. Turner was leaning tiredly on the bed, looking at the baby beside her with a gentle love I had never seen directed at me. She gave birth to a son. Wrapped around my brother was the same blanket I had arrived in. The question stuck in my throat. I didn't dare ask. I swallowed it down. Mrs. Turner couldn't touch cold water while recovering, and Mr. Turner didn't do "women's work." The job fell to me. It was winter. I hugged a laundry basket almost as tall as me, filled with the whole family's clothes. I had to wash them in the unheated garage. The water in the tub was freezing. Winter clothes were thick and heavy when wet. After washing, my shirt was soaked with sweat, but my hands were freezing red and swollen, like ten raw carrots. I tried my best, but Mrs. Turner scolded me with a frown: "I feed you and clothe you, and you can't even get a stain out?" No more eggs for breakfast. Mr. Turner stopped buying me candy. I was moved from my small bed in their room to a cot in the drafty utility room. The wind howled through the cracks, carrying the sound of my brother crying and my parents gently soothing him. I fell asleep crying. When I woke up, my pillow was ice cold. Some questions didn't need to be asked anymore. Growing up happens overnight sometimes. I didn't dare be naughty anymore. Feeding the chickens, washing clothes, cooking—I was the most obedient child in Oak Creek. But even so, Mrs. Turner found countless reasons to blame me. My brother caught a cold? My fault. Mr. Turner slipped on ice? My fault. The crops had a bad harvest? Still my fault. Hungry and cold, I lived walking on eggshells. That December, a social worker and the school principal knocked on the door. I was six. They came to persuade the Turners to send me to school. This was the third time. They had refused before, saying I was too young. This time, the social worker threatened them, saying truancy was illegal and they could be fined or even investigated for neglect. 3 That night, the Turners argued. The thin walls couldn't block Mrs. Turner's sharp voice: "School supplies cost money! Wouldn't it be better to save that for the baby?" "The state said it's illegal not to send her." Her voice lowered to a whisper: "What if we just... lost her?" The next morning, I opened my eyes to find Mr. Turner sitting by my cot. He stared at me for a long time and said heavily: "Get up. Haven't you always been curious about the big city?" "Today, Dad will take you to Seattle." I had only seen the Space Needle on TV. However, the city wasn't full of wonder like I imagined. The weather was gray, and the wind off the Puget Sound cut like a knife. Ignoring my refusal, Mr. Turner bought me five packs of candy and some snacks at a convenience store. There was a stone bench outside a busy market. He pressed me down on it. "I'm going to buy something. Wait here. When you finish eating these, I'll be back." Not far away, a homeless man was holding a sign: "Puppies for Sale." In the bustling crowd, I locked eyes with a black puppy lying on the cold pavement. Its eyes were wet, like it was crying. Mr. Turner turned to leave. I grabbed his sleeve, begging in a low voice: "Dad, I'll be good. I'll take care of you when you're old. Don't forget to come back for me." He turned back, touched my face with a trembling hand. His eyes were red. Then he brushed off my hand and disappeared into the crowd. I waited until dusk. No one bought the puppy either. The man dragged it away, cursing and kicking it. But the black dog kept wagging its tail, following happily. Before leaving, it panted at me, tongue out. Look, even a dog was happier than me. I stood in the cold wind all day without eating. When the last sunlight faded and the city lights blurred into a haze, I blacked out. 4 I thought I would freeze to death in that biting winter. But I woke up in a warm bed. Mrs. Miller, the owner of the convenience store where I was left, had taken me in. She had a loud, enthusiastic voice. She made me a bowl of hot soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. "Eat it while it's hot, honey!" I ate silently. She combed my hair briskly and promised to take me to the police station in the morning. I looked at the nightstand. The unopened candy lay there. I whispered: "I have no home. They don't want me anymore." Soon, Mr. Miller, who had been closing the shop, came upstairs. I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep. Mrs. Miller pulled him to the bed and whispered: "Ben, look at her. Doesn't she look like Lily?" Mr. Miller rubbed his hands, silent for a long time before saying: "We take her to the police station tomorrow, Sarah." Early the next morning, Mr. Miller drove me to the precinct. The police contacted the Turners. I waited on a cold metal bench for a whole day, but no one came. Near closing time, Mrs. Miller was pacing outside the glass doors. I looked at her, smiled gently, and lowered my head. Ten minutes later, she pushed the door open and grabbed my hand: "Come on, let's go home for now." Mr. Miller was watching the store. He looked at us and frowned: "Why did you bring her back?" Mrs. Miller wasn't afraid. She patted my head: "We aren't short of a bite of food." I stayed at the Miller's convenience store. As Christmas approached, business was busy. I tried my best to help, stocking shelves and sweeping. There were many snacks in the store. Mrs. Miller let me take whatever I wanted. But I didn't touch a thing. At night, Mrs. Miller hugged me to sleep, warming my cold feet. When they were too busy to cook, she made me mac and cheese. She always gave me the fresh boxes. If I tried to eat the ones nearing expiration, she would snatch them away. Unlike Mrs. Miller's warmth, Mr. Miller rarely smiled. I was scared of him. On Christmas Eve, after the last delivery truck left, he called me. "Hey, kid. Wait." I shivered, looking at him timidly. He pulled a pair of pink mittens out of his pocket: "Here." I refused in panic, but he stuffed them into my arms forcefully. Mrs. Miller unwrapped them and put them on me: "Wear them. Your hands are always red from the cold." The warmth made my skin tingle. My heart felt like it was soaking in a hot bath, sour and full. Two days later, their son came back from boarding school. Kyle. He was fifteen. When he arrived, it was already dark. I tried my best to smile at him, but he just looked at me coldly: "Mom, Dad, Lily is dead. You can't just replace her with some stray kid." He was angry, arguing with them behind closed doors. I sat on the stairs. His voice hammered into my ears. "Raising a child isn't like raising a pet! You're getting older, your health isn't great. Is she going to be my responsibility later?" "You adopt her without asking me if I want a sister?" "Send her away tomorrow!" ... "Where? CPS, an orphanage, back to the boonies, anywhere but here." 5 Sure enough, the love I received wouldn't last. The argument continued. The Millers were good people; I shouldn't make things difficult for them. I took off the pink mittens, placed them neatly on the table, put the candy in my pocket, and went out into the snow. The streets were wide and empty. Christmas lights twinkled in every window. The world was so big, yet there was no place for me. I walked aimlessly until I reached the bridge over the river. The dark water surged below, waving at me. Six years ago, my adoptive mother fished me out of a river. Maybe the water was where I truly belonged. I climbed the railing and opened my arms. In this moment, I felt like a bird. Fly. I leaned forward. Just then, strong arms grabbed me tightly, dragging me from the railing to the hard pavement. Kyle's angry voice exploded in my ear: "Are you crazy? What are you doing?" "If you die, what happens to my parents? What happens to me?" I felt helpless. Even my death would cause trouble for others. "I didn't mean to." I stood up slowly, enduring the pain. "Excuse me, which way is the orphanage?" Kyle panted heavily, staring at me. After a long time, his shoulders slumped, his voice hoarse: "Don't get too close to the river. Lily... she drowned." He grabbed my wrist and dragged me forward. "This isn't the way to the orphanage..." I whispered. "You're too old. The orphanage is full." Near home, we passed a bakery. Through the window, a girl in a party dress blew out candles on a cake, surrounded by family. She looked so happy. I slowed down involuntarily. Kyle looked back. "Haven't you ever had birthday cake?" I shook my head. "When is your birthday?" "I don't know. I was found. My mom said the day she found me, the first snow of winter fell." Country kids were content with being fed. Cake was a fantasy. God must have pitied me. As soon as I spoke, large snowflakes began to drift from the sky. Kyle reached out, catching a flake: "It's snowing." 6 "This is the first snow of the year. From now on, the first snow of every year is your birthday." He pulled a handful of Hershey's Kisses from his pocket and handed them to me: "Happy Birthday, Luna!" After we got home, Mrs. Miller returned, covered in snow. She scolded me while hugging me and crying loudly. Kyle ran out and came back a moment later with a giant cupcake. "Too late to order a real cake. Make do with this." Mrs. Miller cooked me a steak dinner. Mr. Miller clapped clumsily, humming "Happy Birthday." I blew out the candle. The room plunged into darkness. But I was no longer afraid. Because a light had been lit in my heart. Mrs. Miller bought me new clothes. After dinner, they gave me an allowance. I had never owned money before. Kyle gave me a gift: a piggy bank. It rattled. He said coolly: "I put five bucks in there for you." After the holidays, Mrs. Miller enrolled me in school. She held my hand, helping me fill out the forms. Name: Luna Miller. Every time Kyle called from school, he would chat with me. When he came home, he always brought gifts. Happy days passed quickly. It was time for Kyle's SATs. I had a nightmare that he failed. I begged Mrs. Miller to go to the city to cheer for him. She agreed. We stayed in a motel near the testing center, cooking nutritious meals on a hot plate so he wouldn't have to eat cafeteria food. It turned out that a roommate of his got food poisoning from street food the night before the exam. Kyle didn't eat it because he was full from Mrs. Miller's cooking. While others were sick during the test, Kyle was fine. Later, he got into Stanford. My brain wasn't as sharp as his. But Kyle insisted I participate in art competitions. I won first prize in the state, and my painting was shown on TV. This award got me a scholarship to a prestigious private middle school in the city. Mrs. Miller was overjoyed. She threw a block party for the neighborhood. "Luna got into the best school! She's our lucky star!" At dusk, everyone was eating and laughing. Mr. Miller handed me a plate of ribs. "Sit and eat." I sat on a stool, listening to the neighbors chat. "Business is getting worse every year," a neighbor sighed. The laughter faded. The city was building a new mall and bypass, diverting traffic away from our street. Many shops were closing. Someone offered to buy Mr. Miller's store for a low price. They asked my opinion. I was just a kid. But I didn't want to leave. Mrs. Miller sighed: "Let's think about it." Before they could decide, a luxury car pulled up. 7 The Parkers. My biological parents. I used to fantasize about them coming to save me. Now, here they were. Driving a Mercedes, wearing designer clothes, carrying art supplies. They hugged me and cried. "Elara, we finally found you." They showed me a photo of a girl, my sister Chloe, who looked just like me. They saw my art award on TV and tracked me down. Years ago, my grandmother had taken me away because they wanted a boy, and abandoned me. My bio-mom cried about her regret. But they had another daughter a year later. "Come back with us to Chicago. We'll make it up to you." I was silent. "Did you look for me before?" Bio-mom froze. "We... asked around." "If I go back, won't it affect your reputation?" "We own our own company now. No one controls us." They stayed at a hotel. Kyle flew back from Stanford overnight. When he arrived, Mrs. Miller was crying, trying to persuade me. "Business is bad here. They can give you a better life... You're born to be a princess." My heart shrank. Was I a burden? Kyle walked in. "Mom, have you asked her what she wants?" He squatted down, looking into my eyes. "Luna, you will always be my sister. Just tell me your truth."
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