Chapter 4 – The Blood of Lies

Lyra

The neighborhood reeks of resignation.

The walls are covered in mold, leprous, blackened by time. The windows barricaded with boards or plastic sheeting tremble in the wind. With each step, my heels sink into cracked asphalt, soaked with dirty water. Torn trash bags lie in front of the stairwells, and a starving cat slinks between my legs with a growl.

I move forward, my gaze low, my limbs still numb from that night when I gave everything, lost everything, regained everything.

I ascend the stairs. The smell of rancid frying, damp laundry, and poorly digested anger envelops me immediately. In our home, nothing breathes. Nothing shines. Not even love.

I open the door. It creaks as always.

Cassandre is there. Slumped on the old brown couch with torn armrests, a cup of coffee in hand. Hair tangled. The look of a queen in a rotten kingdom.

She shoots me an angry glance, eyebrows furrowed:

— Where were you yesterday? You didn't come home! You must have ended up with that wild guy!

Her voice pierces my eardrums. Before, I would have stayed silent. Before, I would have apologized.

But not anymore.

I step forward. And without warning, without a shout, I slap her.

The sound cracks in the room. Sharp. Brutal.

Cassandre staggers. Her eyes widen. She falls, collapsing to the floor with a muffled groan.

She doesn’t even have time to react. My rage, long contained, finally explodes. I hit her again. She screams, protects her face, crawls backward on all fours to the sideboard.

— You crazy bitch! she yells. You're going to break my jaw!

— I would have already broken it if I were like you, I spit. But I hit for the truth. Not to belittle.

Our parents rush into the living room. My mother in a bathrobe, her face crumpled from sleep. My father, furious, fists clenched.

— Lyra! he roars. Are you sick or what? How can you be so brutal?

I glare at him. He has never looked at me as his daughter. Just as one more burden.

Cassandre gets up crying, her cheek red, her lips trembling:

— Ungrateful brat! Bastard! We adopted you and this is how you thank us? You should be grateful to eat at our table!

The word freezes me.

Adopted.

Everything freezes inside me. As if the room were shrinking. As if all the noise, all the ugliness, all the memories of this house had aligned to give meaning to that word.

Adopted.

I take a step back, my heart suddenly empty.

— So that’s why… I whisper. No wonder you’ve always treated me like a servant.

I look at their faces. I see panic in their eyes. What they had buried just resurfaced.

— You raised me with resentment, I continue in a trembling voice. Not with love. And you know what? I will pay you back. Every penny. Every meal. Every piece of clothing. You owe me nothing anymore. Because from today… I am no longer part of this damned family.

The doorbell rings.

Everyone freezes.

I turn my head, still breathless. I open the door.

On the landing: an elegant woman, her hair styled in a perfect bun, her eyes filled with tears. A man standing tall beside her. Two bodyguards in dark suits frame the scene. A luxury car shines below, parked in front of the dumpsters.

The woman looks at me as if she has just regained the breath that was taken from her.

Then, without hesitation, she pulls me into her arms, bursting into tears.

— My darling… you have suffered so much…

I stand frozen. Her arms are warm. Unknown. Sincere.

Cassandre appears behind me, bewildered:

— You have the wrong person!

The woman steps back, looking into my eyes.

— No, she whispers. We have been looking for our daughter for years…

My mouth opens, but no words come out.

She turns to the man. He slowly nods, his face shaken.

— You were called Liora, he says. You were three years old when… when we lost you.

He pulls out a photo. A smiling little girl, brown curls, white dress. And there, on her arm, a mole.

The woman takes my hand, rolls up my sleeve.

The same. Exactly the same.

My mother: this stranger cries even harder.

— You got lost in the park, on a Sunday afternoon. And… and when we came back, you were gone. We think your nanny… she… she took you. No one has seen her since. And you… we searched everywhere for you. You were too small to say your name. You had forgotten…

My throat tightens. My vision wavers.

I turn around.

I see Cassandre, pale. My adoptive parents, silent.

I have nothing left to say to them.

I take a step towards the woman. Towards the one who has sought me, hoped for me. Towards this truth that I didn’t dare even dream of.

She opens her arms to me.

— You are my daughter.

I collapse against her.

For the first time in years, I cry. Really cry. No anger. No shame. No loneliness.

Just… a sadness too old, too heavy, that finally allows itself to flow.

She rocks me, as if I were still that lost child.

And in her arms, I finally feel a word I had never known:

Home.