Chapter 4

Once I finished editing the speech, I went to the kitchen to wash the dishes.

Dad happened to be on a phone call in the living room, so his voice carried clearly into the kitchen. "Julian's adopted, so I just can't feel any real affection toward him, no matter how hard I try."

I went completely still.

Dad had the call on speaker, so I could hear what the person on the other end said. "You've raised him for 18 years! Surely you feel something for him by now, right?"

Dad leaned back on the couch and lit a cigarette. "How could I? Henry is the apple of my eye. Who knows what kind of family that adopted one came from? He's always so calculating! He's probably just like his biological parents!"

I wiped my hands dry on the apron and walked into the living room. "Dad."

Dad looked up at me and told the person on the other end to wait for a moment. He then covered the phone and asked, "What's the matter?"

"What if I told you I'm your biological son?"

"Have you lost your mind?"

I gathered the courage to speak up. "W-what if the paternity test back then was wrong, Dad?"

Dad immediately hung up the phone and sat up straight. "You pulled this when you were a kid, and now that you're 18 years old, you're still bringing it up? You bring this up every few years. Don't you ever get tired of it? Do you think saying these things will somehow turn you into my biological son?

"You're not worthy of it, Julian—not even if you get perfect grades and not even if you do everything you can to win me over. You're simply not my biological son! Do you get that, Julian?"

I froze in place, standing there in a daze.

"You'd better get this straight, Julian—Henry is my one and only son. You're not my son, and you'll never be!"

I finally remembered now. I was always upset about it when I was a kid. I would keep asking Dad if there had been a mistake and if I was actually his biological son.

Dad and I clearly looked so much alike—we had the same dimples. Mom and I looked a lot like each other, too. We both liked cilantro, which might have been something we inherited through our genes. Henry, meanwhile, felt nauseated as soon as he smelled it.

Back then, I grabbed Dad's hand and asked, "What if I'm your biological son, Dad?"

Dad forcefully shoved me away after hearing that.

I hit my forehead on the coffee table, and blood trickled down my face.

Dad didn't seem worried at all. He just snapped, "You ungrateful brat! Do you think you can take Henry's place now?"

I was left with a permanent scar on my forehead after that incident.

Dad even pointed right at me and said, "You were ugly to begin with, and now that scar makes you look even worse. Henry is so much better-looking than you."

I snapped back to my senses and noticed that Dad's gaze was filled with disgust as he looked at me.

I fought to keep my emotions in check, pursed my lips, and turned away to return to my room.

I had a dream that night that I had never been trafficked and that there had been no mistake with the paternity test. Dad patted my shoulder and lovingly called out to me, his voice brimming with pride. I could see perfectly with both of my eyes. I could see Dad smiling sincerely at me.

It was such a vivid scene that I could have sworn it had really happened, but then I suddenly woke up from my dream.

I noticed a small damp patch on the pillow, puzzled as to when I had started crying in my dream.

Those five days of waiting were pure torture. Every single day felt like a year.

Around noon on Monday, one of Henry's friends came over. He pointed at me and asked, "Is that your brother? What happened to his eye, Henry?"

Henry replied indifferently, "There's something wrong with his eye, so stop gawking at him."

Dad came out carrying a plate of fruit. He heard their conversation and added, "Julian brought this on himself. He's been blind in that eye for quite some time now, so you don't have to worry about it."

I forced myself to keep a straight face and nodded slightly.

On Tuesday night, Mom finally returned from her business trip. She brought Henry lots of presents, including a new tablet, a limited-edition collectible figure, and a set of expensive sports equipment.

I stood in the corner, watching them enjoy their time together as a family. I felt my eyes stinging with unshed tears and a lump in my throat. I hurriedly lowered my head, worried that they'd notice my miserable state.

Dad glanced at me and asked, "What are you standing there for? Go clean Henry's room and do the laundry he left lying around."

I practically bolted into my room, gritting my teeth as I fought back tears.

On Wednesday—Henry's birthday—numerous guests arrived, making the place bustling and lively. There were plenty of birthday gifts stacked all around the living room.

Dad walked out carrying a birthday cake with "Happy Birthday, Henry! Here's to a Bright Future!" written in chocolate across the surface.

Henry's classmates crowded around him, singing the birthday song together.

Dad held up his phone to record the whole scene, grinning from ear to ear.

I stood in the kitchen doorway with soapy water still dripping from my hands. They didn't even bother to call me over. It was my birthday too, yet not a single person mentioned it.

On Thursday morning, Henry went to participate in the public speaking competition. I was the one who edited his speech—or rather, I wrote it. He threw out his original draft and had me do a complete rewrite for him. I had been working on it until 2:00 am just two days ago.

Dad was seated in the front row, holding up his phone to film the whole thing. I could see his face clearly in the glow from his phone screen—his eyes were brimming with tears as a smile spread across his face.

Henry took first place in the competition.

Dad shared Henry's photo in the family group chat. In the photo, Henry held up his trophy, beaming with pride.

Dad followed up with a message after that. "Henry's a chip off the old block! He's wonderful!"

Everyone in the family group chat responded with thumbs-up emojis and praised Henry, while my name was never once mentioned.

Finally, it was Friday. I stood outside the paternity testing center's glass door, my palms slick with sweat. The receptionist handed me a manila envelope. I took out the two pages and looked at the last line.

"The results support a biological father-son relationship between samples A and B, with a paternity probability of 99.9999%."