My parents, who I hadn't seen in sixteen years, came back. They brought my sister with them, who looked exactly like me. I thought maybe they'd feel guilty about ignoring me all these years, but the first thing out of their mouths was criticism. "Can't you even call us Mom and Dad?" "Big sisters have to give way to little sisters." That was the line I heard most often during my time with them. 1. My mom and dad were finally back, and they brought my sister, who was my spitting image. Well, maybe not exactly identical. She wore a delicate little dress, a fluffy pink skirt that made her look adorable and sweet. Her skin was smooth and pale, cheeks rosy – you could tell she’d been pampered her whole life. I looked down at myself. Year-round, I wore the same school uniform, washed so many times it was faded. On my feet were the cheapest sneakers from a discount store, so stiff they hurt. Dark circles hung under my eyes, taking up half my face. My skin was rough, kind of sallow, and I was a good half-head shorter than her. Nobody looking at us would easily guess we were twins. I stood there for a long time, unable to force out the words "Mom" or "Dad." I don't know how to describe my parents. When my sister and I were born, I was the stronger twin. My sister was malnourished and had to be kept in an incubator at first. We had just turned one month old when my parents got a business opportunity. They had to go down South to start a company. They couldn't manage two babies, so they decided to take only my sister and leave me with my grandma in the countryside. People in the village said my parents were heartless. I was too young to understand any of it. All I knew was that when I was hungry, I cried for milk. Grandma would take me around to women in the village who had just given birth, asking if they could spare some milk. The villagers pitied me; they all helped Grandma and me out in small ways. That's how I grew up. When I learned to crawl, I crawled all over the yard. Grandma would sweep it clean first and put up wooden fences to keep the free-ranging chickens and ducks out. When I learned to walk, I'd follow Grandma to the fields. She'd work, and I'd play with the weeds by the edge of the field all day. When I learned to talk, Grandma taught me nursery rhymes. She didn't know anything about fancy early education, so she sang me old folk songs and local ditties. During all that time, my world consisted only of Grandma. 2 When I got a little older and started playing with the other village kids, they were always saying, "My daddy said this," or "My mommy said that." I ran to the fields and asked Grandma, "What's a mommy and daddy?" Hearing my question, Grandma turned away, secretly wiping tears. I stood there frozen, feeling like I'd done something wrong. There were some other women, aunts from the village, working nearby. The soft-hearted ones couldn't help but get red-eyed too. Mrs. Gable was closest to me. She knelt and wiped the dirt off my face with her handkerchief. "Ava, honey, you don't need a mommy and daddy. You have Grandma, and you have all of us aunts and uncles." Mrs. Gable had lots of fruit trees in her yard. Whenever they bore fruit, she'd bring a bunch over to our house. I liked her, so I listened to her. After that, it was like the village kids made a pact. No one ever mentioned "mommy" or "daddy" in front of me again. It wasn't until I started elementary school in town that a teacher asked us to share stories about our parents. When it was my turn, I stood up bold as brass and said, "I don't have a mom and dad." The teacher froze, her eyes filled with a new kind of pity. Finally, she bent down and whispered gently that she wanted to walk home with me after school. I led the teacher back to my house. She and Grandma talked for a long time about things I didn't understand. The conversation ended with the teacher's silence and Grandma's tears. I gathered one thing from it all. It turned out I did have a mom and dad. And a sister who looked just like me. They were just doing business far, far away, and it was hard for them to come back. I asked Grandma how far away. Farther than going to my aunt's house in the next county? Grandma said it was much, much, much, much farther than that. Okay, I understood then. Even going to my aunt's house by car made me feel sick sometimes. Mom, Dad, and my sister were even farther away, so coming back must be really tough. Grandma showed me pictures of them. She told me my dad's name was John Miller, my mom was Helen Miller, and my sister was Mia Miller. 3 After that day, I started getting phone calls from my parents two or three times a week. At first, they asked about every little detail of my life and school. I was happy to share my daily routines with them. They said they hadn't contacted me before because they were worried I'd make a fuss if I knew they existed. As time went on, I noticed my parents on the other end of the line became colder. They started giving vague, noncommittal answers to things I shared. The calls got shorter and less frequent. From two or three times a week, to once a week, then once a month. Even that one monthly call might get cut short right after I answered, with them saying they were busy with work and would talk next time. I stopped looking forward to those calls. I figured the time was better spent helping Grandma with chores. When I started middle school, I hit that sensitive teenage phase and began to resent those parents. Back then, I often wondered what the difference was between me and an orphan. Oh, right, there was a difference. I still had a grandma who loved me, and kind, warm-hearted neighbors. My parents did come back once. The government was acquiring land, and it happened to include the fields behind our house on the hill. They came back to handle the paperwork, not planning to stay long, so they didn't bring Mia. I was boarding at the middle school then. A friend who commuted told me my parents were back. I got permission to leave and rushed home. I was too late. As I ran back into the village, I saw them from afar, arguing with Grandma about something. I could occasionally hear my name and Mia's name mixed in. For some reason, I didn't dare go closer. I just watched my well-dressed parents get into their car and drive away. I saw Grandma's lonely figure from behind. I realized her hair had gotten so white, her back so bent, her legs so stiff. Later, the villagers quietly told me Grandma had wanted my parents to take me South with them. The education was better there. But they thought I'd be too much trouble. 4 From that moment on, I stopped fooling around all day and threw myself into studying. My teachers said that getting a good education was the way out, that it would give me more choices later to do what I wanted. Back then, I didn't have any grand ambitions. I just wanted Grandma to have a comfortable life in her old age. I got into the best high school in the city, one known for its high college acceptance rate. Grandma was overjoyed. She said the village was finally going to have a college student, that I would definitely have a bright future. But Grandma didn't wait for me. She passed away quietly one night. The doctor said it was cerebral edema caused by a stroke. It happened so suddenly, catching everyone off guard. I knew Grandma wasn't well, that she took medicine often, but I never thought it was that serious. My parents only found out she was sick after she had already passed away. With Grandma gone, I truly felt like an orphan. So, when my parents finally stood in front of me, I couldn't bring myself to call them Mom and Dad. My mom frowned, her tone blaming. "Ava, why aren't you greeting us? Can't you even say Mom and Dad?" Before I could speak, Mrs. Gable, who was standing nearby, started scoffing. "Who are these people? Our girl Ava here has never known any mom or dad. I've lived in this village most of my life, Ava's sixteen now, and I've never seen her have any parents." They'd let me grow up wild in the countryside, and now they were blaming me for having no manners. My mom's face flushed red and pale. She looked like she wanted to say more, but my dad stopped her. My sister stepped out from behind them, timidly calling me "Sister." It was the first time I'd ever seen her. But at that moment, I wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. I was just sad – sad for Grandma, and sad for myself. They had bought a house in the city and were planning to move back. Because we were nearing our college entrance exams (like the SATs/ACTs), and Mia's residency was still registered here, she had to come back to take the tests locally. Sixteen years without living together wasn't something you could smooth over quickly. In their beautifully decorated house, I felt timid and cautious, always like I was intruding, walking on eggshells. Sometimes they'd laugh and talk about things that happened down South, but their smiles would stiffen when they saw me. I wasn't part of their memories. Because of this, I interacted with them carefully, preferring to be invisible at home.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "392471", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel