My parents stared at me with icy contempt.
“This is a disgrace to our family,” my father said flatly. “From today on, you are no longer our child.”

His words cut deeper than any blow ever could.

That night, rain fell without mercy. My mother hurled my torn backpack out the door and pushed me into the street. I had no money. No shelter. Nowhere to go.

Clutching my stomach and forcing myself not to cry, I walked away from what had once been the safest place I knew—without looking back.

I gave birth to my daughter in a cramped rented room barely eight square meters wide. It was stifling, poor, and filled with judgmental whispers. I raised her with everything I had. When she turned two, I left my province and brought her to Saigon. I worked as a waitress during the day and studied a vocational course at night.

Slowly, my fate began to change.

I found an opportunity in online business. Step by step, I built something of my own.
Six years later, I bought a house.
Ten years later, I opened a chain of stores.
Twenty years later, my assets exceeded 200 billion VND.

By every standard, I was successful.

And yet, the wound of being abandoned by my own parents never truly healed.

One day, I chose to go back.
Not to forgive.
But to let them see what they had lost.

I drove my Mercedes into my hometown. The house looked exactly as it always had—old, crumbling, and even more neglected. Rust coated the gate. Paint peeled from the walls. Weeds overtook the yard.

Standing at the door, I took a steadying breath and knocked three times.

A young woman—about eighteen—answered.

I froze.

She looked exactly like me. Her eyes, her nose, even the way her brows furrowed—it was like facing my younger self.

“Who are you looking for?” she asked softly.

Before I could respond, my parents stepped outside. The moment they saw me, they went completely still. My mother lifted a hand to her mouth, tears instantly filling her eyes.

I smiled coldly.
“So… now you regret it?”

Suddenly, the girl rushed forward and grasped my mother’s hand.

“Grandma, who is this?”

Grandma?

My chest tightened painfully as I turned back toward my parents.

“Who… who is this child?”

My mother broke down completely.
“She… she’s your brother.”

Everything inside me shattered.
“That’s impossible!” I cried. “I raised my child myself! What are you talking about?”

My father let out a long sigh, his voice thin with age.
“We adopted a baby who was left at our gate… eighteen years ago.”

My body went cold.
“Left… at the gate?”

My mother went to a cabinet and took out an old diaper. I recognized it instantly—the one I had wrapped my newborn in.

It felt as if my heart were being pierced.

Through her sobs, she explained,
“After you left, his father came looking for the child. You had already gone to Saigon. He drank, caused trouble, and then disappeared.

Eighteen years ago, one morning, I opened the door and found a newborn lying there. Nothing but this diaper. I knew it was connected to you. I thought something terrible had happened to you… that maybe you were gone forever.”

Her voice cracked.

“We failed you once. But we couldn’t abandon this child. We raised him as our own. We never hit him. Never treated him badly.”

I was shaking.

That diaper—I had hidden it carefully. No one knew about it.

There was only one explanation.

My daughter’s biological father had another child… and abandoned him at the very place he knew I had been cast out.

I looked at the girl—the child I hadn’t given birth to, yet who looked so much like me.

She asked softly,
“Grandpa… why are you crying?”

I pulled her into my arms and broke down like I never had before.

My parents fell to their knees.
“Forgive us. We were wrong. Please don’t blame the child.”

I looked at them, and twenty years of resentment slowly dissolved—not because they deserved forgiveness, but because I understood something deeper.

This child needed a family.
And I needed to release the past.

I wiped away my tears and said,
“I didn’t come back for revenge. I came back to reclaim what’s mine.”

I took the girl’s hand and smiled.
“From now on, you’re my sister.”

Behind us, my parents cried like children.