Growing Pains

My father is a fool for love. He only ever loved his childhood sweetheart, never my mother or me. Growing up, I was the ghost in our own home. Bullied by classmates, abused by the staff—my father saw none of it. Or chose not to. Then came my eighteenth birthday. It was also the anniversary of my mother's death, and for the first time in years, he came home to have dinner with me. After the meal, he slid a document across the table. A severance agreement. “I’ve provided for you for eighteen years,” he said, his voice flat. “My obligation is fulfilled.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just signed my name and walked away to start a new life. Months later, on a different birthday—mine—he found me, holding a strawberry cake. He pleaded, his voice a whisper, “Sophie, please… come home with Dad.” I just shook my head. “No.” … My memories of my father are a hazy blur, distant and cold. When I was four or five, I’d tug on his coat, begging him to pick me up. He never did. Then my mother died. I was hysterical, my world collapsing, but he just had the nanny cover my mouth to stifle the noise. As I got older, he washed his hands of me completely, leaving me to the care of housekeepers and nannies. I missed him, so I’d sneak out to his office, once trailing him all the way to a charming little house in the suburbs. A mother and daughter lived there. My nanny told me, with a cruel little smile, that they were my father’s true family. And I was nothing. He was a phantom at every school play, every parent-teacher conference. To the outside world, I was no different from an orphan. So, when he showed up today to visit my mother's grave with me, I was stunned. The story I’d always been told was that my mother was just a girl from a small town, working a dead-end job in a hotel. She was uncultured and plain, and I was an accident that trapped her into becoming Mrs. Reed. The marriage, starved of affection, crushed her. She fell into a deep depression after I was born and faded away a few years later. My father only ever showed a flicker of emotion for her on two days: their wedding day and the day she died. Otherwise, she was a stranger to him. His heart, his entire being, belonged to his true love, Sylvia. I’d met Sylvia many times. She was the epitome of grace and intellect, beautiful and poised. In her youth, she was the daughter of a prominent politician, but her world crumbled when he was disgraced in a corruption scandal. My father couldn’t marry her, so he kept her sheltered in his heart, a treasure to be protected at all costs. Sylvia was the moon—a celestial, untouchable beauty. My mother and I? We were weeds, left to the wind and rain. Whether we thrived or withered was of no concern to him. That’s why he knew my mother was sick, just as he later knew the staff tormented me. But he never lifted a finger. I was the product of an accident, a child who never should have carried his blood. My very existence was a constant reminder of his betrayal of Sylvia. The night he presented the severance agreement, we had just finished dinner. Pizza and pasta. It was the favorite of Sylvia's daughter, Grace. My father, in his distant way, probably assumed all teenage girls loved pizza. I actually hated it. But to make him happy, I ate two-thirds of it, wiping the grease from my mouth and telling him it was delicious. When the papers landed in front of me, I felt like a sewer rat caught stealing scraps, instantly thrown back into my place. “Sophie, you’re eighteen now. You’re an adult,” he said. “I’ve done my duty by you.” He wasn’t wrong. He was rich. Impossibly rich. He hired people to look after me, to drive me to and from school, to prepare my meals and give me an allowance. This was his version of fatherhood for a daughter he didn't love. For Grace, he filled an entire room with dolls. He was by her side for every holiday, no matter how busy he was. Before she was even fourteen, they had traveled the world together, photos of their trips tucked neatly in his wallet and displayed in his car. That was his version of true love. “I know you must resent me, but you can understand, can’t you?” He sighed, and for the first time, I noticed a few silver strands at his temples. His voice was laced with a strange, self-inflicted sorrow. “I can honestly say I never let you want for anything—food, clothes, a roof over your head.” He paused, his gaze distant. “But Sylvia… she’s stood by me for half her life with no title, no security. I can’t let her live in the shadows any longer. I have to take responsibility. Give her a home. Make it official.” The pen was smooth, the paper crisp. In less than a minute, I had signed both copies. When I handed them to him, his face was a wooden mask. I couldn't tell if he was relieved or just numb. “You should check to make sure everything is in order,” I said. He glanced down at the signatures, then back at me, his expression unreadable. “You’re not going to make any demands?” “In your presence,” I said, my voice steady, “I’ve never had the right to make demands.” The Reed inheritance, the house, the money—I couldn’t touch any of it. The slightest hint of greed from me would have upset his other daughter, Grace. Even without a drop of his blood in her veins, she received a universe of love and affection that I could only dream of. Knowing my place was the only dignity I had left. “Right,” he said, a visible wave of relief washing over him. “Your grandfather left you a considerable trust. That should be more than enough to keep you comfortable for the rest of your life.” I didn’t argue. “I’ll be staying in the school dorms from now on,” I said calmly. “I don’t have much here. I won’t be coming back.” I fished the house key from my pocket and placed it on the table. “I’ll ask the housekeeper to delete my fingerprint from the door lock.” Perhaps my composure unnerved him, because his resolve seemed to soften just a fraction. “You can continue living here if you want. It’s not like I’ll be back.” I stood and slung my backpack over my shoulder, rejecting his final, pitying offer. “I have to get back to school, Mr. Reed.” The name slipped out easily. When I was a child, he’d forbidden me from calling him ‘Dad’ in public, always introducing me as the child of a friend. This agreement didn’t change a thing. “I’ll drive you,” he offered, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “It’s a long way from here.” “No, thank you,” I said with a polite, practiced smile. “The subway is convenient. I’m used to it.” In truth, the subway ride was two hours, a miserable commute. But Grace had long since moved into a condo in a top school district near campus, with Sylvia living there to look after her. I’d seen them more than once near the school, a perfect little family. I once followed them to their building, slipping past the strict security guard behind another resident. I sat on a bench across the street for a long time that day, watching the silhouettes move behind the lit window. I painted a picture in my mind where I was one of them, eating dinner together, then watching TV and sharing fruit. In that fantasy, my dad remembered what I liked to eat, called me ‘Soph’ affectionately, and reminded me to wear a coat if it rained. He’d care if my grades were slipping and hire a tutor for me. Then the light went out. The curtains were drawn. And just like that, I was alone again in the world. I had spent my childhood trying to earn his love with a self-destructive desperation. I’d clung to him, begging him not to leave. As I grew older, I’d mimic scenes from movies, getting myself sick or hurt, acting out like a delinquent just to get his attention. I’d tried charming my grandfather, even the nannies, hoping they’d put in a good word for me. But nothing I did ever changed a thing. Only now, in the act of disowning me, did he seem to feel a sliver of guilt. But only a sliver. The next day, I saw his car parked outside the school gates. He was there for Grace. He looked dapper and energized, wearing a handsome tie, not at all like a man in his forties. His face was lit with a smile of pure relief, a smile I’d never seen before. It froze for a split second when he saw me. I started to turn away. My presence was clearly a blight on his newfound happiness. I buried my head and walked against the flow of students, trying to ignore the happy reunions all around me. But Grace wouldn't let me escape. She ran over and grabbed my arm. “Doesn’t your family ever come to pick you up?” I knew she wanted to see me hurt. I gave her what she wanted, nodding calmly. “I don’t have a family anymore. Not a single person.” My mother was dead. My father had abandoned me. She feigned a gasp of surprise, then, loud enough for everyone to hear, she called out to my biological father. “Dad! Let’s have Sophie eat with us tonight. She’s all alone, the poor thing.” “Poor thing?” my father shot back, his eyes sweeping over me with cold indifference. “She has plenty of money. She won’t miss one meal. Let’s go, Grace. Your mother is waiting.” His reaction didn't surprise me. It wasn’t the first time. My grandfather once told me that, besides the nurses, my father was the first person to hold me when I was born. The first word I ever spoke was “Dada.” They say blood is thicker than water, but for him, romance was a flood that washed away all kinship. Maybe he had loved me when I was an infant, a helpless creature dependent on him. But as I grew, as I learned to fend for myself, his sense of love and responsibility evaporated. That severance agreement was the inevitable result. “It’s okay, Dad,” Grace pressed, still clinging to his arm. “Sophie is your daughter, too.” “She is not.” He took Grace’s hand, his gaze fixed forward, refusing to even look at me. He completely erased me. “From now on, Grace is my only daughter. Come on, we’ll be late.” As he led her away, Grace glanced back over her shoulder, sticking her tongue out and winking at me. The look was pure provocation, a silent taunt: See? You can be his real daughter, but he’ll still choose me over you. Grace knew exactly how to twist the knife. We’d been in the same class from middle school through high school. She couldn’t stand me, largely because we shared the same father. She was doted on, loved, and raised in a world of sunshine and positivity. She was cheerful and outgoing to everyone but me. With me, she was a viper. For six years, any classmate who dared to befriend me would inevitably become her new best friend. Grace forbade anyone in our class from speaking to me, from acknowledging my existence. I was a ghost. Years later, I learned the word for it: social ostracization. It leaves no physical scars, but the damage to the soul is fatal. But now, I was beyond caring about such petty cruelties. I just had to get through the next three months, and then I would be free of this place, free of this man who was my father in name only. I turned my back and walked away, a lone figure moving against the tide. Behind me, I heard Grace’s sweet, cloying voice. “Dad, what are you looking at?” “Nothing. Let’s go.” After moving out of the mansion, I settled into the dorm. It was small, but clean. The single bed was narrow, but it was truly mine. It was nothing like the house I grew up in—so vast and tall that I felt like a speck of dust inside it. The tiles were cold, the air was silent. I’d often wake up from nightmares into a pitch-black emptiness, so profound that I’d wish for a ghost to keep me company, just to have someone to talk to. But even ghosts have companions. I only had my reflection in the mirror. The dorm lights went out at ten-thirty sharp. As I lay in the dark, my phone buzzed on the pillow. It was an old model, not like Grace’s, which was replaced with every new release. Mine was slow, the memory always full, so it took a moment to open the new message. It was from an unknown number. “Sophie, why didn’t you come back to the house?” The tone was unmistakable. It was my father. It was almost funny. In all my life, I had never had his contact information. I’d once snuck a look at my grandfather’s phone, memorized the number, and, with a trembling heart, called it from a public payphone. I was eight. It was raining outside. Inside the booth, a woman's voice answered. It was Sylvia. “Hello?” she’d asked. In the background, I could hear my father’s laughter. “Come on, get up here. Time to give my little princess a piggyback ride.” I hung up. The next time I called was after a particularly brutal incident with the nanny. I was crying, desperate, but all my father said was, “Sophie, where did you get my number?” Soon after, he changed it. In my most helpless moments, I would still dial the old, disconnected number and pour my heart out to the silence. But now, he was the one texting me. And I felt nothing. “Yes,” I replied. He seemed displeased. “We may have severed ties, but that’s no reason for you to run away from home.” Run away? Where was I supposed to go? He didn’t want me, yet he wouldn’t let me leave. Did he expect me to stay trapped in that cold, loveless cage for the rest of my life? Where could I possibly go that wouldn’t be an eyesore to him? “Sophie, stop being so dramatic. This won’t do you any good. If you think this will earn my sympathy, you’re being childish.” How novel. My father was actually lecturing me. Where was this paternal concern when the nanny stripped me naked and whipped me with a clothes hanger, while I clawed at the door until my fingertips bled, begging for a piece of bread? Where was it when her boyfriend she brought home almost assaulted me, and afterward, she slapped me across the face, calling me a little whore just like my mother? In those moments of pure agony and despair, I would have given anything for him to show up. Even if it was just to call me a coward. As long as he was there. But he never was. My pleas never reached him. He brought me into this world but refused to raise me, yet he expected me to be as proud and well-adjusted as Grace. My father was a greedy man. “Your sympathy is worthless to me,” I typed, my fingers steady. “And my life is no longer your concern.” After hitting send, I dragged his number into my block list without a second thought. There was no point in staying connected to someone who had already cut me out of his life. After her victory in front of my father, Grace was ecstatic. Her campaign against me, once subtle, became overt and relentless, especially at school. My desk was in the back corner, an island of solitude. No one dared to be my deskmate. From my seat, I had a clear view of Grace’s back, always surrounded by a buzzing swarm of admirers. She held up her wrist, showing off a new bracelet. “Isn’t it beautiful? My dad flew abroad just to buy it for me.” “I know that brand! It’s insanely expensive.” “I’m so jealous. I wish my dad was that generous.” “Grace, your dad is the best.” Since signing the severance agreement, I’d lost all interest in my father’s life. What new clothes or jewelry he bought for Grace meant nothing to me anymore. But Grace still wouldn’t leave me alone. I don’t know how her brand-new bracelet ended up in my backpack, but when she stood there, tears streaming down her face, accusing me of being a thief, I almost laughed. She was still so childish. The same tired tricks, year after year. Grace’s tears were all it took for the head teacher to pronounce me guilty. “Sophie, stealing is a serious offense. I have no choice but to call your parents.” I didn’t have parents. My only living parent was standing right next to Grace, listening to the teacher’s account with a grim expression. He was here to defend his daughter. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “Sophie not only stole Grace’s bracelet, but she also broke it? Is that correct?” It was phrased as a question, but just like the teacher, he had already reached his verdict. I didn’t answer him. Instead, I turned to face Grace. “Grace, your father is asking you a question. Is that correct?” “I’m asking you!” he thundered, his voice suddenly booming through the quiet office. His composure had finally cracked. Was it because this involved Grace? This man, who had remained a stone-faced statue through my mother’s death and my grandfather’s funeral, was actually showing emotion. So, he wasn’t a robot after all. “Why are you asking me?” I said, turning my gaze back to him. “If Grace claims I stole her bracelet, she should provide proof. When did it go missing? It was on her wrist all day, how could I have possibly taken it?” I stared directly into his eyes, eyes that were so unnervingly similar to my own. When I was little, my mother would trace the shape of my eyes when she missed him, her tears falling onto my cheeks. I had inherited her gentle nature, but life had taught me to be hard. “There are security cameras in the classroom,” I continued, my voice gaining strength. “I haven’t been anywhere near her all day. How could I have stolen it? Did I develop telekinesis?” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. The lie was so flimsy, so transparent, yet both the teacher and my father had chosen to believe it. At this, the teacher’s expression faltered, but my father’s reason was once again clouded by a single, theatrical sob from Grace.

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