The night it all came crashing down
One evening, she left her phone charging in the living room. As I walked past, the screen lit up. I shouldn’t have looked—but I did.
What I saw made my chest tighten.
A group chat. Filled with cruel messages about me.
“She’s so fake.”
“I can’t stand how she tries to be my mom.”
“Counting the days until I don’t have to live with her.”
I scrolled further, each line cutting deeper than the last—screenshots of my texts, captioned with mocking emojis. Jokes about my cooking. Even a nickname that made me feel like a stranger in my own home.
The next morning, I asked her to sit down. My voice trembled, but I stayed calm.
“I saw some of the things you wrote,” I began quietly. “I don’t want to punish you—I just want to understand why.”
Her face went pale. For a moment, I saw panic. Then, anger.
“You keep taking me away from my mum!” she shouted. “You’re not my real mother, and you keep trying to be!”
