My Own Harbor

The author of that anonymous comment was none other than my former adoptive younger sister, Cecilia Tierney.

My first instinct was to shut my phone off, but my eyes remained fixed on the replies beneath her comment.

Most people were condemning her for her cruelty. However, there were also those who defended her, arguing that she was simply fighting for a better life.

"Harsh words, but there's some truth to them. The ones who aren't loved don't belong. What's wrong with fighting for what you want?"

"That's just how the real world works. If the biological daughter is stupid enough to let someone replace her, whose fault is that? The adopted daughter knows how to use her advantages. That's the law of survival."

"Honestly, it takes two to tango. If the biological daughter wasn't the problem, how could she have been replaced so easily?"

Those comments dragged me straight back to the suffocating home I'd once lived in.

"Eliana, what are you daydreaming about? You're up soon!"

The bar manager's voice came from behind me, clearly impatient.

I snapped out of my thoughts and drew a deep breath, trying to suppress the bitterness and dull ache churning inside my chest.

The cramped, dimly lit backstage area reeked of a mixture of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and cheap perfume. In the mirror, I saw a face so exhausted that even heavy makeup couldn't hide it. I was a far cry from the girl I'd once been, the one who'd worn a spotless school uniform and carried a guitar in her arms.

This was what my life had become, seven years after leaving that house.

The customers were particularly difficult that night. Before I'd even finished my set, a drunken man started throwing bills onto the stage, spewing vulgarities as he did. I forced myself to finish the last song, then fled backstage as if escaping a battlefield. By the time I got there, I felt utterly drained, as though I'd just fought a brutal war.

…

By the time my shift ended, it was already late at night. The cool breeze brushed against my face, clearing my head a little.

I stood at the street corner, yet I had no idea where to go. The place I'd once called home was somewhere I could never return to, and the tiny rented room where I currently lived was nothing more than a temporary shelter.

My phone vibrated. It was a message from my landlord reminding me that next week's rent was due. Without thinking, I tightened my grip on the meager pay I'd earned from performing.

Cecilia was right: my life really had turned out terribly. Even scraping together enough to meet my most basic needs was a struggle.

When I returned to my rented room, which was barely 100 square feet, I collapsed onto the bed. My gaze accidentally fell on the dusty guitar case in the corner, and something struck my heart with painful force.

It was the gift my father had given me for my 15th birthday. He'd once ruffled my hair and said proudly, "Our little Ellie is going to be a great singer someday!"

I'd loved music for as long as I could remember. My dream had been to get into the best music conservatory in the country and sing on a magnificent stage beneath dazzling lights. I had never imagined I'd end up trapped in a smoke-filled bar, singing just to make ends meet.

As if possessed, I walked over and opened the dusty guitar case. The guitar lay quietly inside, its strings already covered in rust. It was just like my dream, gathering dust for so long that it could no longer produce a clear, beautiful sound.