A Belated Sunny Day

At the dinner table, Mom picked up the last piece of spare rib and put it in Claire Blackwood’s bowl.

The fork I had reached out stopped midair. After a pause, I carefully took some greens instead.

“Mom, I want to sign up for a math competition prep class.”

Without even looking up, Mom said, “Claire’s grades dropped on her recent exam. Help her catch up with her studies this weekend.”

“But I need to study too,” I said.

“Your grades are good. What’s the big deal about helping her?” She put down her cutlery and looked at me. “Sophia Blackwood, I didn’t raise you all these years to have you refuse something this simple.”

Claire gnawed on her spare rib and mumbled, “Mom, I want to enter the public speaking competition. The city-level one.”

“Go ahead.” Mom agreed immediately. “How much is the registration fee?”

“Six hundred.”

“I’ll transfer the money to you tomorrow.”

Last month, my homeroom teacher had recommended me for the state-level mathematics competition. The registration fee was three hundred.

I had stood at the kitchen doorway for a long time before finally working up the courage to ask. Wiping down the coffee table without looking up, Mom had said, “You might not even win a prize after all that preparation. Where are we supposed to get that kind of money?”

Later, my homeroom teacher asked me twice, and I told her I didn’t want to go.

“I’m full.” Claire pushed her plate aside, leaving nearly half a plate of food untouched.

Mom reached over to feel her forehead. “Why did you eat so little? Are you feeling unwell?”

“I had some snacks this afternoon.”

“You still need to finish your dinner. You’re growing.” Mom took her plate away, and served her half a bowl of soup. “Here, drink your soup.”

I looked at the large amount of food on my plate.

Bitterness caught in my throat.

It took a moment to force down the green vegetable I’d picked up earlier.

Three days ago, the main administrative affairs office had asked me to help organize student records.

The door was ajar. Before I could push it open, I heard two teachers talking inside.

“Claire from Class Three had her blood type recorded as B during her last physical.”

“B? That can’t be right. Her mother listed her emergency contact information at the parent-teacher conference, and her blood type was O. Her father’s is O too.”

“Can two people with type O blood have a child with type B?”

There was a brief silence.

Then came the sound of files being flipped through.

“Could she be the one the Blackwoods adopted? I remember the family adopted another girl named Sophia Blackwood.”

“Then that makes even less sense.”

I stood outside with my hand on the doorknob, but I didn’t push it open.

Type O.

Two people with type O.

I ran through the blood-type inheritance chart we had learned in biology class.

Two people with type O blood couldn’t have a child with type B.

It was impossible.

I crouched down right there and went over those words again and again.

My head was buzzing.

Could Claire not be Mom and Dad’s biological daughter either?

Then who was?

That thought had been stuck in my head for three days, circling endlessly.

After dinner, Mom said, “Go wash the dishes. Claire wants to watch some TV.”

I stayed where I was, still thinking about those records.

“Hurry up.” Mom urged me again.

I turned and went into the kitchen.

I turned the faucet on full blast, water spraying off the plates and soaking my clothes.

I lowered my head and looked at my hands.

The second knuckle of the ring finger on my left hand curved slightly, exactly like Mom’s.

My nose was straight and narrow, just like Dad’s.

There was a dimple on the left side of my face, just like Mom’s.

I had known since I was six that I was adopted.

So whenever I noticed these supposed similarities, I always told myself they were just coincidences.

But three years ago, something happened.

A relative came to visit. When she saw me, she said to Mom, “This girl has such beautiful eyes. She really does look a little like you—so dark and bright.”

Mom barely reacted.

She waved her hand dismissively. “She’s not even my biological daughter. How could she look like me?”

During their small talk, the relative praised me several times, saying I was sensible, filial, and good at doing so many chores.

Claire heard every word.

After the guest left, Claire took the new laser pointer she had just bought and shone it around the living room.

I was crouched on the floor, clearing the fruit platter on the coffee table, when she told me to look up.

The moment I did, that red beam shot straight into my right eye.

A searing pain tore through me.

That was when I lost the sight in my right eye.