The Day I Left Home

The investigator blinked at my mother's words. "Ma'am, according to the application, Kate is your biological daughter. Not a foster child."

Chloe started fidgeting beside her.

My mother squeezed her hand and shot back: "There must be a mistake. We only have one biological daughter in this family—Chloe."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "Mom, this is a background check for my college admission. It matters. Why would you lie?"

She wouldn't budge, so I turned to my father.

He cleared his throat and doubled down. "Mrs. Kent is right. Kate's always been embarrassed about being fostered—she probably filled out the paperwork wrong to save face."

The investigator raised an eyebrow, then his eyes drifted to the wall covered in family portraits—just the three of them. He didn't press further. He gathered his things and stood.

"Ms. Kate, since your application doesn't match the facts, I'm putting this review on hold. You'll hear from us."

The door clicked shut.

My ears were ringing. I could barely stay upright.

My mother shoved a vacuum into my hands. "There's still a ton of housework to do. Don't just stand there."

Chloe had already retreated to her room, gossiping with her friends on video chat.

I dropped the vacuum. My voice shook. "You knew how important this review was. Why did you lie?!"

My mother glanced nervously at Chloe's door and hissed: "Keep it down! Chloe already has abandonment issues. Why would I say something that would hurt her?"

My father frowned. "It's just a minor hiccup. You can reapply. Next time Chloe's not around, we'll cooperate."

Ever since Chloe came home, everything—everything—was about making her feel secure. And I was the one who always had to give.

I remembered the community family day years ago. A neighbor casually remarked that Chloe and I looked just like sisters.

Chloe completely lost it.

My mother rushed to hold her and said it for the first time: "We only have one daughter in this house—Chloe. Kate is a foster child."

The looks everyone gave me that day—the pity, the confusion—I still can't forget.

I turned to go to my room. My father called after me:

"By the way, which school accepted you?"

"Stanford—"

Before I could finish, Chloe came shrieking out of her room. "Mom! Dad! I won a community competition! Three hundred dollars!"

My mother swept her into a hug, kissed her cheek, and immediately posted about it on Instagram. My father, without a second thought, transferred two thousand dollars as a reward.

The three of them, wrapped up in each other, glowed.

Last year, I won first place in a statewide competition. The only one.

I thought maybe—just maybe—they'd say something.

They barely glanced at it. "Move aside, you're blocking the frame." They were busy getting Chloe's volunteer certificate mounted and framed.

They even threw a small party and hired a photographer for the occasion.

No one remembered that day was also my birthday.

I went to my room, pulled out a suitcase, and started packing.

My phone buzzed. It was my Stanford advisor.

"Kate, why did the background check get paused? What happened? Your paperwork is perfectly fine."

My throat tightened. I told her everything.

Her voice softened. "Don't worry. It's a minor issue. I'll write a letter explaining everything. We'll get this fixed."

I choked out a thank you and hung up.

Then the tears came. Flooding.

Everyone else—my advisor, my guidance counselor, friends who'd written recommendations—they'd all been so careful. Some had even rehearsed what to say so they wouldn't mess up my review.

But my own parents couldn't be bothered.

I pulled up my phone and booked a flight to California.

If they didn't want a daughter, I'd stop being one.

Seven days.