Chapter 2

Eunia

If I had to give but one name to what started these years of torture, it would be hers. I curse the day I met her. That little bitch, Kruska Belov.

It’s often true what they say. The worst things can come from the best intentions and I was a fool to think that a good heart was all it took to find happiness in this world.

I was an even bigger fool to think I could share my privilege with someone else without incurring their wrath. Because after all, people have pride and sometimes mistake genuine care for condescension. My ten-year-old self could have never thought that wanting to help someone would ruin my entire life.

I was ten years old when I met Kruska, and from that moment on, everything changed.

I came from a wealthy family. It meant that our school trips were always extravagant, carefully curated, “educational” experiences. We went everywhere, even places most children my age never dreamed of. Once, the school took us to an interactive aquarium, where the glass walls shimmered with schools of fish darting like liquid jewels. Another time, we hiked up a mountain, my legs aching while teachers called it “character building.” Sometimes it was smaller things, like weekend camping trips where the air smelled of pine smoke, or art exhibitions where stern curators watched us too closely.

And then, one day, the school decided to take us to an orphanage.

That was the first time I had even heard of one. The very word felt foreign to me, heavy and strange in my mouth. I was so oblivious, so sheltered, so wrapped in the cocoon of privilege that I didn’t even know there were places like that—places where children had no mothers, no fathers, no safe homes.

We filed in, a group of chattering kids in neat uniforms. Some of my classmates looked curious, others bored, and a few looked uneasy, as if poverty itself might rub off on them. The children from the orphanage gathered in a corner of the hall, trying their best to smile and play along. But not her.

Kruska sat apart from everyone else. Alone. Back straight, chin slightly raised, ignoring the visitors as if none of us mattered. That small act of defiance caught my attention, drew me in like a moth to a flame. Something in me wanted to know why she was different.

I broke off from the group, my polished shoes tapping on the dull concrete floor as I made my way toward her. She was sitting on a bench by herself, legs dangling, eyes cast down. My little heart pounded with both nerves and excitement as I reached out and tapped her shoulder.

She turned.

And for lack of better words, Kruska was… gorgeous.

She had the kind of beauty that startled you, even as a child. Her hair was long, a very pale blonde that seemed almost white, catching the light in soft, silky strands. Her bangs framed her forehead in a way that made her baby-blue eyes stand out like pieces of clear sky. Her skin was fair and smooth, her cheeks touched with a delicate flush. She looked like a porcelain doll brought to life. I remember standing there, staring, utterly enchanted.

But then she sneered at me, lips curling with disdain and turned away. The dismissal stung, but I noticed something else when she shifted: dark, faint bruises along her arm, peeking out from the sleeve of her worn dress. My curiosity sharpened into concern.

“Are you okay?” I asked softly.

“I'm fine.” 

She brushed me off, turning her body as if to shield herself from my gaze. She didn’t want my pity, or maybe she didn’t trust it. She got up abruptly, walking away.

But I followed.

My small legs scurried after her, stubborn in my determination to know the truth. I couldn’t help myself—compassion had already taken root, pulling me forward.

She spun around, eyes flashing with irritation. “What am I, your puppy? Quit being so nosy, I said I’m fine.”

Her words cut sharper than she could have known. My throat tightened, my eyes stung hot with unshed tears. I froze, ashamed, small under the weight of her anger. My voice shook when I whispered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. My mommy says to always help people if you think they’re in trouble. Sorry, I won’t bother you again.”

I turned to leave, humiliated, my cheeks burning with embarrassment and hurt.

But then, her hand caught mine.

She sighed, groaning loudly, as if dragged into something she didn’t want but couldn’t avoid. “I’m sorry for being so harsh, I was a jerk. My name is Kruska.”

I blinked, stunned, then beamed. Relief washed over me so suddenly I almost laughed through my tears. “I’m Eunia.”

And just like that, something shifted. We hit it off, two children bonding in the simplest, rawest way. I, being as naïve as I was, poured my little heart out to her, telling her about my life—how wonderful my parents were, how big my house was, the toys I had, the trips we took. I thought I was sharing joy. I thought I was showing her what love looked like.

When it was time to leave, I didn’t want to. My chest ached as the teachers herded us back to the bus. And then Kruska leaned close, her blue eyes shining, and told me to come visit her again. That single invitation lit me up with happiness. I promised I would.

That night, I begged my parents. I begged them to let our driver take me back to the orphanage. I told them I had a friend there, and I couldn’t leave her behind. My parents weren’t too keen on the idea—especially my mother, who thought it unwise and improper. If only I knew what the future would bring, I would have listened. God, I would have obeyed so hard it would rival Abraham.

But I was stubborn. I threw tantrums, cried, screamed until my throat was raw. My father, weary and worried, finally relented. He agreed to let the driver take me back, so long as I brought donations.

The managers at the orphanage always welcomed me warmly. They knew I never came empty handed—toys, food, clothes, anything I could convince my parents to give. Each visit, Kruska and I grew closer. But each time I saw her, she seemed worse off. Fresh bruises bloomed on her arms, her legs. Her smile grew thinner.

After pressing her again and again, she finally caved. With trembling lips and tear-filled eyes, she confessed.

She was being beaten by the caretaker.

She admitted she was sickly, her body always fragile, needing extra care she never got. As she broke down crying in front of me, my heart shattered. She was so small, so beautiful, and so broken. I wanted nothing more than to protect her, to lift her out of that darkness.

I started bringing more gifts. But no matter how much I brought, she still seemed trapped, suffering. It was unbearable.

One day, I blurted out: “You’re my friend and I can’t bear to see you in this condition. Can’t you call the cops on your caretaker? It’s wrong to hit a kid.”

Her eyes widened with fear. “I don’t want to get into more trouble. The other kids are scared of him and they’d refuse to stand as witnesses. I don’t want to get kicked out of the orphanage.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

Her hand brushed mine. Her voice softened, coaxing. “There is. I wouldn’t have to stay here if I got adopted. Think about it. If your parents adopt me, we could always be together. We could be sisters.”

And naïve, innocent, hopeful little ten-year-old me fell for it. And fell hard.

I thought it was the best idea in the world. I had always wanted a sister. My parents were too busy to have another baby, always caught up in their business, their social lives. I thought I had found the solution, a miracle.

When I told my parents, they refused immediately. They tried to explain that adoption was a serious decision, a lifelong responsibility. They tried to make me understand. But I refused to listen.

I went on a hunger strike. I swore I wouldn’t eat until they said yes.

Days passed. They grew terrified I’d fall sick. My mother begged me, my father shouted, but I held my ground. Eventually, they caved—not completely, but enough to compromise. They agreed to come with me to the orphanage, to meet this “friend” I loved so dearly.

And that was Act Two in my downfall.