My name is Sarah Miller. Today was supposed to be the happiest day of my life – my wedding day. My groom, Mark, is one of the most respected lawyers in the city. We had a big reception planned, a couple hundred guests. But one man's arrival shattered the festive mood. My father—Richard Davis. Funny, right? We don't even share the same last name. Over a decade ago, he dropped fifty thousand dollars on the table, ditched my mom and me, took my brother, and walked out. … "Sarah, honey, this is your father," Mom said, beaming like nothing was wrong. Richard Davis smiled at me too. "Sarah, I'm your dad. Do you remember me?" "Of course, she remembers her father," Mom chimed in, then looked pointedly at me. "Right, Sarah?" I stared at the two of them, feeling disgusted and annoyed. A sarcastic smile touched my lips. "Oh, I remember. You didn't want Mom, and you didn't want me!" Their smiles froze instantly. "Sarah, how can you talk like that? You'll make your father angry." Good. Let him be angry. Seeing them upset was the only thing that could make me feel slightly better right now. I put on an innocent face. "But Mom, isn't that what you always used to say? Didn't you say he was the kind of guy who'd use someone and then pretend he didn't know them?" Richard shot a glare at my mother. His face turned ugly. Mom scrambled to explain. "No, Richard, Sarah's just trying to provoke you! Why would I ever say anything bad about you?" Truth is, Mom never really bad-mouthed Richard to me. In her eyes, the real villain was always the "homewrecker" who supposedly lured him away. Richard gave her money, bought her things; how could he be wrong? Richard sighed dramatically. "Sarah, it's okay if you're angry with me. Your old dad forgives you. I won't hold it against you." Then, he turned to Mark, who had just hurried over. "This must be my son-in-law! A fine young man!" Richard’s forced familiarity made my skin crawl. Had they all conveniently forgotten how my brother died eight years ago? 2: Ghosts of the Past When Richard Davis left with my brother, Leo. I was young, and the memories are hazy. I mostly remember Mom constantly cursing, "That damn tramp, that sneaky witch." Later, when I was older. Mom told me Dad had an affair. He was stolen away by some homewrecker. For that woman, Dad abandoned us, taking only Leo and leaving fifty grand behind. This whole thing messed Mom up badly. She constantly pushed me, telling me I had to succeed, had to give her a good life. While other kids were riding on their dads' shoulders playing horsey, Mom had me drilling multiplication tables and memorizing state capitals day and night. It went on like that for years. When I got tired, I’d look in the mirror and try to psych myself up. I'd think about my twin brother, Leo—born two minutes after me, but always insisting I call him 'big bro'. The sharpest memory I have from back then: Once, I accidentally broke Mom’s favorite vase. I was terrified of getting yelled at, or worse. Leo just smirked at me, teasing me for being clumsy. But when Mom came home, he took the blame. He got grounded for a week. I asked him why he did it. He patted my head like a little old man and said, "'Cause I'm the big brother, gotta protect you. Now, call me 'big bro'." Looking in the mirror now, I whispered it with a smile, "Big bro." I always thought, someday I’d see Leo again, and I’d call him that to his face. But— The next time I saw my brother. He was lying on a cold hospital bed, covered entirely by a white sheet. I stood beside him, sobbing uncontrollably. My brother was only eighteen. How could he just die from an illness? I couldn't accept it. I cried and demanded answers from Mom. "We just couldn't scrape together the money in time," she’d said, wiping tears. "The hospital wouldn't schedule the surgery without payment upfront. It's their fault, damn them, treating people like numbers." She even tried to raise hell at the hospital later, hoping to get some kind of settlement, but failed. Seeing me devastated by Leo's death, especially with my college entrance exams coming up, Mom tried to comfort me. Tears streamed down her face as she said, "Your brother was such a good kid, always thinking of others. He probably didn't want the family to go bankrupt trying to pay for his surgery, so he… he just let go." Then her crying turned into angry muttering. "It's all because of that homewrecker! If it wasn't for her, your dad wouldn't have left us, your brother wouldn't have grown up without me, his own mother, looking after him, and died so young. It's all her fault! If he'd just left us more money, maybe we could have afforded the treatment..." Money, money, money! If we'd had enough money for the surgery, would Leo still be alive? Before, all I wanted was a comfortable, simple life. Now I understood: being broke could literally kill someone. I started studying even harder. For kids like me, from families like mine, the only path to making real money seemed to be getting into a top university through sheer hard work. Three months later, I got into a prestigious university. Once enrolled, I balanced intense studying with part-time jobs, sending every penny I earned to Mom. She was thrilled. She bragged to everyone about how smart and responsible I was, already earning good money before even graduating. If people agreed and praised me too, she’d be even happier. If they didn't, she'd start bad-mouthing them the second they turned their backs. Her mood swings were astonishing. She kept calling me "Sarah, honey," but she rarely mentioned my brother, Leo, anymore. That struck me as odd. They say losing a child is the hardest grief for a mother to bear, but my mother… she didn't seem truly heartbroken for long. It wasn't until that one day that I finally understood what kind of person my mother really was. 3: The Awful Truth One day, I saw Mom at the restaurant where I waitressed. She had no idea I worked there; in fact, she never asked about my jobs – where I worked, if it was tiring. She only cared about how much money I made. Mom was sitting by the window, wearing a silk scarf and oversized sunglasses. If it weren't for the familiar cheap dress she had on, I might not have recognized her. Across from her sat a woman I didn't know. She looked polished and expensive – designer trench coat, classic Chanel bag. Clearly loaded. How did Mom know someone like that? Just then, a couple sat down at a nearby table. I went over, my back to Mom's table, and started taking their order. "I really don't get it," the wealthy woman said impatiently. "How can you, the mistress, have the nerve to keep asking for money?" "Why shouldn't I have the nerve?" Mom shot back. "Did I sleep with your husband for all those years for free? Did I give him two kids for nothing?" My mind went blank for a second. Wēng~~~ a buzzing filled my ears. Mom… was the mistress? Those words echoed in my head. "You already got your payout when you gave up your son. My husband's barely interested in you now. What leverage do you have left?" the woman sneered. Mom chuckled coldly. "Don't forget, I still have a daughter. Push me too far, and we can burn it all down! I've got nothing left to lose besides her, but you people? Your husband's company could go under if this gets out. Let's see where your family ends up then!" "Miss? Miss?" The male customer waved his hand in front of my face, looking concerned. "Are you okay? You look really pale." I dug my nails into my palm, the sharp pain bringing me back. I shook my head. "Thanks, I'm fine. I'll go put your order in." I hurried away, hearing the girl at the table behind me say excitedly, "Wow, she must be totally shocked by what those two were saying! Can you believe a mistress being so shameless..." She was right. I was shocked. All this time, I thought my parents had divorced, and each took a child. The reality was horrifying: Mom was the mistress, shamelessly wrecking someone else's family. Even worse, the idea that my brother was… sold? Given up for money? I knew Mom loved money. She scrimped and saved on everything, even on me. But I never imagined she could just… trade away her own son! My twin brother! I tried to fight the thought, tried to remember Mom's grief when we got the news about Leo. But all I could picture was her getting over it quickly, back to playing mahjong with her friends within days. Even when Dad called and forbade us from attending Leo’s funeral, Mom didn’t argue. I begged her to take me. But she just said, "I feel too guilty, not being able to afford his treatment. I can't face him." Back then, my heart ached for her. It made me work even harder, earn more money! Thinking back now, piecing things together, a chilling thought surfaced: Was Leo's death really about not having enough money? Didn't Dad own a company?! Later, I saw that wealthy woman – Dad's actual wife – at my workplace again. This time, she was holding a little boy, maybe two or three years old. Did she kill my brother because she finally had a son of her own? The monstrous idea festered in my mind. I desperately wanted to run up and scream at her: "Did you kill my brother? Did you?!" But I knew, deep down, I had no power, no way to uncover the truth like this. And that's when I realized… this fancy wedding, this unwanted reunion… this was my chance to start digging.
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