Mom, I Wouldn't Go Back to You

After I shoved her away, Audrey Newman stared at me in shock. "Ella, it's me, Mom!"

When I showed no reaction, she assumed I didn't believe her and quickly pulled a photo from her handbag. "Look. This was taken on the day you were born."

As she spoke, she pointed at the heart-shaped birthmark on the baby's neck in the photo, then pointed at the matching mark on mine. "You've had this birthmark since you were little, haven't you?"

My gaze landed on the photo and froze. The background was lavish, and even the blanket wrapped around the baby gleamed in gold. It was just that…

I looked away. "My name's Salmonella, not Ella. This place is filthy and messy. You should leave as soon as possible, ma'am."

Audrey looked flustered, panic crossing her face. She instinctively reached for my hand. "No, that's not right. You're my daughter. I—"

Her words suddenly died in her throat. She lowered her head and looked at my hands—filthy, calloused, and covered in chilblains—then immediately let go.

I caught the flash of disgust in her eyes and almost laughed. I was only 18 years old, yet I looked older than she did.

Realizing how awkward the moment had become, she cleared her throat and continued, "Ella, your name isn't Salmonella. It's Ella Robinson. You're my daughter, while I'm Audrey Newman, your biological mother."

It was only then that I looked up.

Ella, the name that had followed me for 18 years, was what I thought had come from the people who raised me. I never imagined it had come from her.

In a slum where everyone had names like Richard Dickhead and Smelly Kelly, having a normal name was practically a crime.

The neighborhood bully, Richard, used to dump buckets of swill over my head and grind my face into the dirt. "Ella, my ass! You're not allowed to use that name anymore! From now on, you're just Salmonella. Got it?"

I didn't have it in me to fight back, for resisting meant getting beaten. So, I could only comply. Audrey might've abandoned me, yet she had still managed to give me a reason to be bullied.

I sucked in a deep breath. "You should leave. Your daughter's dead."

Audrey's brows drew together, and she said hurriedly, "What are you talking about? You're my daughter. We've met before, remember?"

Of course, I remembered. I met her once when I was 12 years old.

That day, I had just returned from scavenging at the landfill, reeking from head to toe. Audrey had stood in the muddy square at the center of the neighborhood, handing out candy.

When she saw me, she approached me. At first, it looked like she wanted to stroke my head, but in the end, she awkwardly settled for a light tap on my shoulder. "Why do you collect trash?"

"To help Mom and Dad support the family," I had answered.

She seemed particularly pleased by that answer and even gave me a piece of chocolate. It was the sweetest thing I had ever tasted.

Audrey seemed to be reliving the memory, too, her voice tinged with sentiment. "That was when I knew sending you here had been the right decision. My tough-love parenting worked. Look how sensible and considerate you turned out."

I looked at her quietly, the irony of it all gnawing at me.

My answer back then had been deliberate. Kids who grew up in the slums learned prematurely how to read people and tell them exactly what they wanted to hear.

I certainly wasn't collecting trash to help ease the family's burden. I did it because if I disobeyed or failed to bring back enough, I would get beaten.

Sometimes, my foster father would smash me with liquor bottles. Sometimes, my foster mother would whip me with a cane. No matter how hard I cried or begged for mercy on the ground, they wouldn't stop until I was covered in blood.

Just then, the door of a gleaming luxury car swung open, and a young woman stepped out. She seemed to glow.

I didn't recognize the brand of her clothes, but they looked soft and comfortable. The fabric shimmered in the sunlight, and even from where I stood, I could catch a pleasant fragrance.

Instinctively, I tightened my grip on my own clothes, patched more than a dozen times and faded from countless washes. Without realizing it, I took a step back.

"Nice to finally meet you, Ella. I'm Freya Robinson. Mom already told me everything about you. We were switched at birth."

She smiled as she continued, "But I'll still be her daughter, and I won't be coming back here. We came today to bring you home with us."

Audrey reached over and ruffled Freya's hair affectionately. The motherly tenderness in her eyes was overflowing.

I finally met Freya's gaze. Her eyes were bright and lively, curved into a cheerful smile. They were nothing like mine—dull, dispirited, and scarred by too many years of hardship.

So, this was what I was supposed to have grown up into, huh? How ironic.

My supposed mother had spent 18 years lovingly raising the daughter of the people who hurt me while leaving me here without a single care.

"You two should go," I said softly. "And don't come back. This place stinks. I wouldn't want it rubbing off on you."

Audrey frowned, her patience visibly thinning.

Freya slipped her arm around Audrey's and spoke in a sweet voice, "Mom, maybe Ella just needs time to adjust. How about we come back tomorrow? Let's give her the night to process everything."

Audrey considered it for a moment. "That works, too."

When she looked at me again, most of the motherly warmth from our supposed reunion had faded. She forced herself to remain calm as she said, "Pack your things tonight. I'll come get you tomorrow."

After Audrey and Freya left, I staggered back into the house. The moment I sat down, a mouthful of blood burst from my lips.