In my last life, I fought stray dogs for scraps in an alley. I died there, too, with a restaurant owner's boot against my temple for trying to steal a piece of bread. The next time I opened my eyes, I was the long-lost daughter of a family so rich they smelled like money. The girl who had taken my place—my place—looked at me with pure venom in her pretty eyes. "You're just a stray they dragged in off the street," she hissed. "Don't even think about trying to steal Mom and Dad's affection from me." No one had ever spoken to me from that close before. The sound of it, the feeling of her breath, was a gift. I broke into a wide, happy smile and told her the honest truth. "Your voice is so beautiful." Later, when a lie got me cornered and my new mother raised her hand to slap me, I didn't flinch. I closed my eyes and breathed in, mesmerized. "Your hand smells so nice, Mom," I whispered. "Even the little breeze it makes smells like perfume." And when my new brother shoved his glass of milk at me—the milk he refused to drink—my heart swelled with a warmth I’d never known. So this is what it feels like to be cared for by a brother. But eventually, everything changed. When they saw me later, beaten and kneeling on the ground, trembling in fear before a bully, my new family finally broke. 1 The last thing I knew was the toe of a boot connecting with my temple. The pain was a white-hot flash, then nothing. A shame. I never got a single bite of that hot food. You shouldn’t steal. I groaned, my head throbbing like a drum, and blinked my eyes open. I wasn’t in the alley anymore. I was in a car. A clean one. Seeing me awake, the driver glanced in the rearview mirror, a sneer twisting his lips. I heard him mutter, "Kid from the sticks. First time in a real car and she just passes out." A jolt of pure terror shot through me. I instinctively scrambled back, pressing myself into the corner of the leather seat. "Where—where are you taking me?" My voice was a useless, trembling thing. My whole body shook. I’d had run-ins with men like this before, men who wanted to grab you. I’d fought them off, gotten beaten for it, and had to run for my life. But when I spoke, the driver’s disdain vanished, replaced by a wide, unnerving smile. "Don't you worry, Miss. I'm your family's driver. The moment Mrs. Ashworth heard they'd found you, she got the whole family together. They're all waiting for you." The words made no sense, but then a flood of memories—memories that weren't mine—rushed into my head, sharp and painful as needles. I was the real daughter, the one who’d been stolen and swapped at birth. The girl who had taken my place was the biological child of the couple who’d raised her. She had lived my life for over a decade. She had a beautiful name: Stella Ashworth. She had parents who adored her, a brother who protected her. She had the life of a princess, never wanting for anything. Not like the girl whose body I now inhabited. Her name was a cruel joke: Grace. Thrown away, then found by a family that used her as a workhorse. This girl, Grace, had never been to a single day of school in her life. For as long as she could remember, she’d never had a full meal. She cut grass for the pigs, washed clothes for a family that wasn't hers, and spent every other waking moment doing back-breaking farm labor. She was sun-darkened and painfully thin, a girl folded in on herself with shame, who never spoke. When she learned the truth—that she was the long-lost daughter of a wealthy family—the shock and excitement of getting into this car had triggered a fatal heart condition. She had closed her eyes and never opened them again. The realization hit me, and tears of guilt streamed down my face. I'm so sorry. I don't know how I got here. She was supposed to have this. She was seconds away from having the life she deserved. I huddled in the corner, my hand clamped over my mouth to stifle my sobs. I was just a pathetic little stray who’d been kicked to death over a piece of stolen food. I didn't know how to get out of this body, but if there was any chance the real Grace could come back, maybe… maybe I could just have a few full meals before I had to leave. 2 The car glided to a stop. I stumbled out, dazed. Before me stood a house so enormous it looked like it had swallowed the sun. Three figures were waiting on the porch. A beautiful girl stood in the middle, her eyes red-rimmed and glistening with tears. As I crept closer, a boy, tall and angry-looking, wrapped his arm around her. "Don't worry, Stella," he said loudly, for my benefit. "No one in this house is going to hurt you." How nice, I thought. He seems like a good brother. Then the boy—Caleb—turned his glare on me, his brow furrowing in disgust. "This can't be my sister. She looks like some beggar they pulled off the street." A tremor went through me. I instinctively darted behind the woman standing beside him. For some reason, I felt a pull toward her. She must be the original Grace’s mother. My lip trembled. I apologized again to the girl whose life I’d stolen. Please, just let me call her Mom once. "Mom..." I whispered. The woman, Mrs. Ashworth, flinched and subtly shifted away, breaking our proximity. Her smile was tight and awkward. "You must be Grace," she said, nodding stiffly. "Welcome home, dear." Hearing those words, "welcome home," I couldn't stop myself from nodding back, my eyes welling up with tears of gratitude. It was real. I had a home. Stella walked over, her soft, pale hand taking mine. Her smile was bright. "I guess that makes you my sister," she said. "Welcome home, Grace." I managed a small, shy smile in return. She seemed nice, too. As we all turned to go inside, Stella looked back at me, her round, almond-shaped eyes now hard as marbles. "A word of advice," she whispered, her voice a sliver of ice. "Don't get any ideas. You can't win against me." I just stared at her perfect face, then dropped my gaze to the ground, ashamed. "You're so beautiful," I said, my voice barely audible. "And your voice is so pretty." Stella froze, momentarily thrown. Then a cynical smirk crossed her lips. "Psycho," she muttered, and walked away. Inside, I didn't know where to stand. The place was immaculate. The floors were so polished they reflected the lights like a mirror, making me feel even dirtier and more out of place. "Grace, you arrived so suddenly, we haven't had time to prepare a room for you," Stella said, rubbing her eyes as if fighting back tears. Her voice was filled with guilt. "It's all my fault. Please don't blame Mom. It's okay, you can take my room. I'll sleep in the storage closet." Caleb's face darkened. "Stella, don't be ridiculous," he snapped. "You've been pampered your whole life. You can't sleep in a place like that." He turned his disgusted gaze back to me. "You stink. You can stay in the storage room for a few nights until we figure things out." I nodded immediately, not daring to hesitate. "Okay. Thank you." Mrs. Ashworth had looked like she was about to say something, but seeing how compliant I was, she simply let it go. They led me to a small room on the first floor. Inside, there was a clean cot, a small nightstand with a lamp, and not much else. The air was a little musty, and the room was dark, but it was the single nicest place I had ever slept in my entire life. I turned back to them and bowed deeply from the waist. "Thank you," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "Thank you so much." 3 They all just stared at me. Seeing their stunned silence, I worried my thanks hadn't been enough. For a gift this great, for a roof over my head, I should be on my knees. Without another thought, I dropped to the floor, my knees hitting the polished wood with a soft thud. I pressed my forehead to the ground in a gesture of ultimate gratitude. This time, my cold, distant brother reacted. He sprang forward, almost instinctively, and hauled me to my feet. His brow was so deeply furrowed you could lose a coin in it. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded. "Nobody asked you to do that." I rubbed my eyes, secretly cataloging their kindness in my heart. That evening, the family gathered for dinner. My stomach was aching with hunger. Before Mrs. Ashworth could even say a word, I had grabbed a dinner roll from the basket and was stuffing it into my mouth with my bare hands. Caleb slammed his hand on the table. "Have you no manners?" he barked. "Use a fork, for God's sake!" I picked up the heavy silver fork, my hand clumsy, and tried to spear a piece of chicken. I'd never really used utensils before. I knew I must look hideous, mangling the food on my plate. After a few failed attempts, I reluctantly set the fork down. "I'm sorry," I whispered, the words automatic. "Please don't make me leave." Mrs. Ashworth’s expression, which had been one of pure distaste, softened slightly. She let out a long, heavy sigh and placed a few pieces of roasted potato on my plate herself. "Don't just eat bread," she said, her voice strained. "Take whatever you want. Anna, could you please bring Grace a spoon?" Stella jumped up. "I'll get it!" she chirped, and ran to the kitchen. But as she returned, she "tripped," sending the spoon flying through the air. It hit me squarely in the cheek, and the momentum knocked my plate off the table, where it shattered on the floor. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Grace!" Stella cried, her eyes wide and bright, as if she were waiting for a specific reaction. "I was just in such a hurry! Are you okay?" But I didn't feel the sting on my face. All I could see was the food—the precious, perfect food—scattered across the floor among the porcelain shards. My heart broke. I dropped to my knees and began picking up the larger pieces of potato, shoving them into my mouth. Tears of panic streamed down my face. "It's okay, it's okay," I sobbed. "I can still eat it. It's clean." The floor was clean. For years, the cleanest food I ever ate was the leftovers a restaurant owner would scrape into the trash. Most days, I ate from garbage cans. If I was lucky, I'd find a half-eaten sandwich. When the hunger got bad enough, I'd swallow my pride and fight the alley cats for the food kind strangers left out for them. I’d tried the kibble once or twice. It was crunchy, salty, and tasted like fish. My desperation must have terrified Stella. The crocodile tears she’d prepared froze in her eyes. For the first time, she looked completely at a loss. It was Mrs. Ashworth who finally broke the spell. She pulled me up from the floor, and as she lifted me, she seemed to startle at how light I was. Stella and I were the same age, yet she was a head taller than me. I was a stunted, malnourished gargoyle, a living testament to a life of unimaginable hardship. A flicker of pain crossed Mrs. Ashworth's face before she suppressed it. She took me to the sink and gently washed my hands. Her voice was softer now. "From now on, don't eat things off the floor. It's not clean, and you'll get a stomachache. You'll rest at home for a few days, and then you can start school with your brother and sister." I was staring, mesmerized, at her face. But when I heard the word "school," my whole world lit up. I was going to learn how to read. 4 After a few days, I started to adjust. One morning, Caleb scowled at the glass of milk in front of him. "Milk every single day. I'm going to puke." He made a gagging motion. I was walking past the table just then. Caleb’s eyes flicked toward me. A sly smile spread across his face. "Hey, Grace. Want some milk?" He smirked. "You can have mine." I stopped, my heart pounding. "Really?" I asked, my voice filled with disbelief. "Thank you, Caleb!" I beamed at him. "You're so nice." Caleb blinked, taken aback. "I can't tell if you're for real or just crazy," he muttered, shaking his head. I just gave him a shy smile, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. He pushed the tall, cold glass toward me. I swallowed hard, picked it up, and drank it all down in a few big gulps. It was sweet, with a creamy vanilla flavor. So this is what milk tasted like when it wasn't expired. I tapped my chest, feeling a burp coming on. Just then, Stella walked by and bumped into me, jarring the burp right out. I looked at her with gratitude. My brother was nice. My sister was nice, too. Caleb was in tenth grade, while Stella and I were in eighth, in different classes. The teacher told me to stand at the front of the room and introduce myself. I hadn't expected this. My throat went dry. I stood there, swallowing repeatedly, my mind a complete blank. The teacher tapped her desk impatiently. "Come on, now. Don't waste everyone's time." Her sharp tone made me jump, and the words lodged even deeper in my throat. A few students in the back started to snicker. "Just say something! You shaking so hard you're gonna wet yourself?" "Is that even a girl? She's built like a twig." "Look at her clothes. What a hick. Can't even talk." The insults washed over me, and I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. I’d had a few comfortable days at the Ashworths' house, and I’d almost forgotten. This was what my life was supposed to feel like. "I'm sorr—" Before I could finish my apology, the teacher waved her hand dismissively. "Never mind. We don't have time for this. There are two empty seats in the back. One is next to our class president, Ethan. The other is next to... Ryder," she said, her voice dripping with disdain as she gestured toward a boy with dyed-blond hair slouched in his seat. "Just find a spot and sit down so I can start the lesson." I scurried away from the front of the class, breathing a sigh of relief. The class president. He must be a very good person. 5 I walked quickly to the back of the room and stood beside Ethan's desk, waiting for him to let me into the empty seat by the window. The other students watched me with malicious curiosity. Ethan, however, just smiled—a perfect, practiced smile—and graciously waved me in. He was handsome, in a clean-cut, slender way. I felt my cheeks flush. Once the class lost interest, I pulled out my brand-new textbook and ran my hand over the glossy cover again and again. I'd never been to school. I could barely recognize a few letters. But I was too afraid to admit that, too afraid to disappoint my new family. I would just have to try my best to follow along. Ten minutes into the lesson, the teacher started passing out a worksheet from the front row. "Pop quiz. You have twenty minutes." My heart sank. When the paper landed on my desk, I stared at it in horror. Aside from the numbers, I couldn't understand a single word. It was the longest, most excruciating twenty minutes of my life. Before, I had been ashamed of my past, of being homeless, of eating garbage. But I had never felt a shame as profound and all-consuming as this: the shame of my own ignorance. I didn't know anything. I wrote down a few random numbers and handed in my paper. When the bell rang, I felt a desperate urge to cry. I needed to find Stella, to talk to someone. I leaned toward Ethan. "Excuse me," I whispered. "Can I get out, please?" He didn't move. His slender fingers turned the page of a book, his focus absolute. "Hello? I need to get by." He still didn't acknowledge me. It wasn't that he couldn't hear me. He was deliberately ignoring me. I pressed my lips together and sank back into my seat. The next class began. It didn't take long for the teacher to grade the short quiz. She stood at the front of the room, her face a thundercloud, and began reading out the scores from highest to lowest. My head sank lower and lower, my heart pounding in my chest. Please don't say my name... please don't say my name... Just as I thought I might be safe, the teacher's voice boomed through the classroom. "Grace! Stand up." I flinched and shakily got to my feet. She slapped the blackboard with her pointer. "Nine percent! Class, our new student, Grace, has just set a new record low for this class, single-handedly dragging down our class average." "Let's give her a round of applause." A smattering of clapping mixed with cruel laughter filled the room. I kept my head down, tears dripping silently onto my desk. My chest felt tight, aching with a sour pain. "I'm sorry..." I whispered. "I'm so sorry." 6 No one was listening. The teacher made me stand for the rest of the period. I just stood by my chair, silent tears tracking paths down my dusty cheeks. Every now and then, a student would turn around to smirk at me, and I would duck my head even lower, digging my nails into my palms. When the bell finally rang, I couldn't wait to escape. I couldn't do this. I wasn't meant for school. This place was terrifying. I didn't want to come back. "Hello," I said to Ethan, my voice hoarse. "Can you please let me out?" He ignored me again, turning to chat and laugh with the student next to him. I wiped my tears. My only option was to try and climb over his desk. But as I moved, he shot out an arm, blocking me. He looked at me, his face cold, his eyes filled with a familiar malice. "You'll get my books dirty." Without a word, I slowly got down on my knees. As Ethan watched with a smug, raised eyebrow, I crawled out from under his legs. "Oh my god, look! She's crawling through the class president's legs!" someone shouted. The classroom erupted in laughter. A few kids even came closer, laughing loudly right next to my ear. It's okay, I told myself. It's okay. This wasn't new. When I was on the streets, kids my age used to throw rocks at me. When I couldn't get away, they'd make me crawl between their legs. If they were in a good mood, they might even toss me a quarter. Just as I scrambled to my feet, I looked up and saw Stella walking past the classroom door. Our eyes met. I managed a weak, hopeful smile. It's my sister. Stella's eyes went wide. Then, she twisted her face away in disgust and hurried down the hall. 7 I hid in the bathroom until the final bell rang. When I got home, I locked myself in my little room and took out my new books, trying to sound out the words one by one. But I was too stupid. Nothing made sense. I was so consumed by my failure that I barely touched my food at dinner. Tears, like broken pearls, fell from my eyes and splashed into my bowl. Stella glanced at me but said nothing, returning her attention to her meal. Seeing me cry, Mrs. Ashworth grew impatient. "Did something happen at school? What is wrong with you? Say something. Crying isn't going to solve anything." My shoulders shook. I felt completely helpless. "I'm scared," I sobbed. "I don't know anything. The teacher yelled at me today. She said I was holding the whole class back. I'm so stupid. I shouldn't be in school." "What are you talking about?" Mrs. Ashworth asked, confused. "School is where you go to learn. If you already knew everything, there would be no point in going." But I didn't want to go back. That night, my anxiety and misery manifested as a raging fever. My mind grew foggy. Acting on old instincts, I slid off the cot and lay on the cool floor, hoping it would bring the fever down. Eventually, I lost consciousness. When I opened my eyes again, I was in a hospital. What happened? A nurse came in to change my IV bag. Seeing I was awake, she quickly called the Ashworths. A short while later, Mrs. Ashworth arrived. She sat gracefully in the chair beside my bed, her gaze a mixture of scrutiny and a fleeting, quickly suppressed flicker of pain. "You were burning up like that," she said, her voice strained. "Why didn't you call for someone?" I stared at her face, and a wave of raw, inexplicable grief washed over me. This was my mother. When you were sick, a mother was supposed to be with you. Tears welled up again, but this time they were silent. "I didn't dare," I whispered. Mrs. Ashworth sighed. She reached out and pulled the blanket up a little higher around my shoulders. Her voice softened. "Grace, you are my biological daughter. You're allowed to be brave." I blinked at her through my wet lashes, my voice small. "Does that mean... you'll care about me?" She pressed her lips into a thin line, but after a moment, she gave a single, firm nod. My eyes lit up. "And... do you like me?" Mrs. Ashworth hesitated. Her gaze drifted over my small, sickly frame, and finally, she nodded again, slowly. That's good. It felt like I had nothing left to wish for. 8 It was as if my body had stored up a decade of suffering, and it was all coming out at once. The fever kept returning. I was a pincushion of needles and a vessel for medicine. In my clearer moments, I would stare at the textbooks, trying to decipher their meaning. But it was no use. I had to start with the alphabet. During my hospital stay, Mr. Ashworth finally returned from a business trip abroad. He came to see me with Mrs. Ashworth. The moment I saw him, my eyes filled with tears. "Dad?" I asked, my voice choked with emotion. "Are you my dad?" Mr. Ashworth's stern, imposing face softened almost imperceptibly. He nodded. And I broke into the biggest, happiest smile of my life. "Dad. Mom." He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and placed his hand on top of my head. It was large and warm. The warmth of a father. I pulled the covers up over my face and cried again, ashamed of my own weakness. This was a stolen happiness. I knew I couldn't ask for anything more. After that, even Caleb came to visit. When he found out I was learning to read because I was illiterate, he stared at me for a long, silent moment. I automatically smiled at him. "Brother, my life was really hard before. I never had a chance to learn. But I'm smart, I really am!" I could see the shock in his eyes, and maybe a flash of discomfort. He left abruptly, but returned a while later with a stack of colorful picture books. By the time I was discharged, a month had passed. Our shared birthday was approaching, Stella’s and mine. Mrs. Ashworth decided I should continue resting at home until after the party. On the day of the celebration, Stella was dressed in a breathtaking princess gown. Her hair, dark and glossy, fell in perfect, natural waves around her shoulders. She was the very picture of a fairy-tale princess. I looked at her, and even though I knew I could never be as beautiful, my heart filled with joy for her. Mrs. Ashworth had a dress for me, too, but I was so small and thin that it hung off my frame. The only small victory was that my time with the Ashworths had allowed my skin to grow paler, and the years of grime had finally washed away, revealing a subtle resemblance in my features to Mrs. Ashworth. As was tradition, the house was filled with guests. The adults made small talk, and Caleb hung out with a group of boys his own age. Stella, naturally, was the center of attention, surrounded by a crowd of admirers wishing her a happy birthday. "Stella, who's that?" one of the girls asked, nodding in my direction. "The maid's daughter?" Stella shot me a complicated look but didn't answer. I just smiled at them and retreated to a quiet corner to eat a slice of the sweet, wonderful cake. A girl who was clearly older than us sidled up to me. She looked me up and down, a sly smile playing on her lips. "My name's Chloe," she said. "You're the real daughter, right?" She leaned in closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Aren't you jealous? They only pay attention to Stella." I shook my head quickly. "Stella is lovely. Of course they love her." 9 Chloe stared at me as if I were an idiot. "This was all supposed to be yours," she pressed. "How can you not hate her? She stole your parents." I felt a pang of discomfort. "Please don't say that. Stella is my sister." Chloe looked genuinely speechless this time, as if she'd run out of ways to provoke me. Across the room, Stella was opening her presents. Someone had given her a pair of beautiful ballet slippers. She put them on and, to the delight of the crowd, began to dance. She was graceful and light, twirling her way up the grand staircase to the second-floor landing. She finished with a deep, dramatic bow to the applauding guests below. I clapped along with everyone else. She's so talented. Unlike me. I had nothing. No skills, no dreams. I decided to slip away to my little room. As I passed the second floor, I saw Chloe appear behind Stella. She was clapping, but as she did, she gave Stella a subtle, deliberate push. My blood ran cold. My body moved before my brain could process it. My sister is in danger! I lunged forward. Stella fell backward, hard, right into my arms. The impact sent us both tumbling down the grand staircase. The room filled with gasps and screams. By the time Mrs. Ashworth pushed through the crowd, Stella and I were in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. She rushed over and immediately gathered Stella into her arms, checking her from head to toe for injuries. Then, her eyes landed on me. I was about to say I was okay when the sharp sting of a slap exploded across my face. "Grace!" Mrs. Ashworth shrieked, her voice filled with venom. "After all this time pretending, you finally showed your true colors! You couldn't stand to see Stella happy, could you?" "I told you again and again that Stella will always be my daughter! I raised her for sixteen years! You've only been here a few months! I can't believe I actually thought you were a sweet, innocent girl. How could you push your sister down the stairs?!"
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