Cerita Pendek Plot Twists & Novel Bias Biological Family

After being locked up in the mental asylum for 99 days, I was given an early discharge due to improved conditions. After my mother found out, she said coldly, “I won’t pick you up! I’m the head of the psychiatry department. If I personally pick you up, what would others think of me? “Let me tell you the truth. I signed the papers to have you committed. “Sally did slap you first, yet you pushed her to the ground! “She’s your adoptive little sister. How could you do that?” She hung up on me. My hands trembled when I phoned my older brother, Victor Anderson. Before I could speak, he sighed. “Clara, I fully support Mom’s decision. “Besides, I’m an early childhood educator. If others find out that I went to the mental asylum to pick up my younger sister, how would others see me? “Once you learn how to control your own emotions, we’ll definitely fetch you back home.” He hung up on me. I squatted in a corner and felt cold all over. I dialed my last option. My boyfriend, Xander Reid, answered the call. He sounded extremely cold and distant. “Clara, I was the one who submitted that mental health assessment report for your assault on Sally. “I’m her lawyer. To avoid any conflict of interest, I can’t pick you up. “You need treatment for your conditions now. Next month, when you learn to be better, I’ll pick you up with your mother.” I held the phone. Tears trickled down my cheeks as I laughed. I could not wait for another month. Next Wednesday was the deadline for the mandatory observation period. Any patients who were not picked up by their guardians would undergo a prefrontal lobotomy. I could see patients who had gotten that procedure done every single day. They were quiet and isolated, and it seemed like they had lost all their memories. They seemed to be walking corpses trapped within living bodies.

Just to placate his jealous girlfriend, my sugar daddy leaked my intimate photos to an alumni group with two thousand members. When I calmly asked him for my money, Chase Ekland’s interest vanished. “Heather, you really are cheap.” He casually turned to a bleach-blond guy on the sidewalk. “Do you want her? She’s yours. As long as you pay, she’ll do anything.” Just like that, I was sold for the princely sum of $200. The blond guy took me to a cheap motel and handed me $50. I stared at the money. “That’s nowhere near enough.” His hand froze inside his bag. “That’s not enough for you?” As I stared at him in disbelief, he pulled out stack after stack of past exam question sets and spread them across the bed. “Start with math. You’ll get the rest when you finish.”

The year my sister turned fifteen, my father, Grant Davis, became obsessed with holding auctions at home. Everything in the house, from a plate of meat to a turn with the washing machine, from school lunch money to after-school activity fees, had to be won by bidding with family credits. I worked odd jobs until I dropped, sleeping only three hours a night, and finally saved up a thick stack of family credits, the paper soft and warped from my sweat. All Melody had to do was sit on the couch and shed a few tears, and my father would stuff fistfuls of credits into her arms. "Girls deserve to be spoiled. Can't have Melody feeling left out." That day, the item up for auction was an old necklace that had belonged to my grandmother, Ruth Bennett. Eyes burning, I pushed everything I had onto the table. "Eight thousand." Melody tossed out ten thousand without a second thought, her voice sweet and wheedling. "This necklace would go perfectly with my new dress." I begged my father through tears. "This is the only thing Grandma ever left me. Please." My father slapped me so hard my ears rang and my vision blurred. "Highest bidder wins. That's the rule! You're too poor to win, so don't blame anyone else!" Melody snatched the necklace, gave it a look of disgust, and casually tossed it into the roaring fireplace. "Oops, the fire's getting low. This'll make good kindling." I threw myself at the fireplace. The back of my hand split open instantly from the heat, the skin blistering and peeling away. They left, slamming the door behind them, complaining that my screaming was bad luck in the house. Later, I couldn't stop thinking. If I put my own life on the auction block, how many credits would you bid?

My brother, Graham Hart, was the villainous second male lead in a romance novel. After the female lead, Celeste Rodgers, faked her death, he spent every day thinking of ways to die for her. But before he could follow through, he got a call from my kindergarten teacher, Carly Rocha. "Are you Mila Hart's brother? Please come to the school. She keeps climbing into the aquarium and pretending to be a goldfish. She says she learned it from you. What exactly is going on?" After that, Graham didn't dare try to kill himself anymore. He had to set a good example for me. Then one day, years later, the school called him in because I had been caught dating a boy with bleached hair. As it turned out, the boy was Celeste's younger brother, Dylan Rodgers. When she realized who I was, Celeste smiled. "So Mila is your sister. Dylan may not be much of a student, but he's a good kid. I think he'd be perfect for her. Once our families are joined—" Before she could finish, Graham cut her off coldly, "You think becoming part of the Hart family is that easy? Tell Dylan to stop dreaming and stay away from Mila."

On the fifteenth of every month, Rowan Hawthorn and I would swap homes. Eighteen years ago, a hospital accidentally swapped our embryos during IVF and put them into the wrong mothers. When the truth came out, my biological parents, Frank and Ronnie Hawthorn, wanted to keep Rowan. But his biological parents, Eugene and Rowena Cooper, wanted him back. They decided that he would live with each family for one month. Then, we would switch on the fifteenth of every month. I, on the other hand, became the unwanted burden. Wherever Rowan went, the house would be fully stocked with snacks and drinks. He would receive a thousand dollars as his monthly allowance, and the sunlit room would always be reserved for him. Wherever I stayed, there would only be a little food in the fridge, and I would get a dark storage room as my bedroom. Eighteen years later, I was diagnosed with uremia, and Rowan turned out to be an exact match for me. Eugene and Rowena threw a refusal of treatment form at me. “We raised you, and that’s enough. Ask your biological parents for money. Don’t even think about taking our son’s kidney.” Frank and Ronnie pleaded with me as they said, “We know we’ve failed you. But if you die, so be it. Rowan is our whole life!” Just then, I received a call from the hospital. “Mr. Cooper, we’re sorry, but we mixed up your records again. The one with uremia is actually Rowan Hawthorn.” A sudden sense of clarity washed over me. After that, I sold the old house my grandfather had left me. Then, I got myself a camera and some gear I needed before leaving. From that day on, I became a lone wanderer and traveled wherever the wind took me.

At my first Thanksgiving dinner after starting college, Mom handed me a cardboard box. “Honey, your dad and I want you to learn how to manage your own money. “So we’re giving you your entire living allowance for the year at once. Thirty thousand dollars!” I reached for the box excitedly. Then I looked inside. Every bill was fake. I was about to say something when Mom leaned closer and whispered, “Honey, there are too many people here tonight. It wouldn’t be safe to hand you that much cash in front of everyone. “I’ll transfer the money to you later.” In my previous life, I believed her. So I waited quietly. But a month passed, and the money never came. When I finally ran out of money completely, I had no choice but to ask my parents about it. But Mom and Dad both insisted they had already given me the full thirty thousand dollars at Thanksgiving. They even went around telling everyone I was an ungrateful liar who was trying to scam my own family out of more money. Eventually, I became so broke that I couldn’t even afford food. I starved myself sick. Unable to endure the pain any longer, I jumped to my death. Only after I died did I learn the truth. Mom had transferred that money to my younger brother overseas long ago. When I opened my eyes again, I was back at that Thanksgiving dinner. Mom held the cardboard box out to me. “Here you go, honey. Your living expenses for the entire year. Thirty thousand dollars.” This time, I didn’t take it. Instead, I flipped open the lid. “Mom, you’re saying this box of fake money is thirty thousand dollars?”

Mom's hearing comes and goes. She never hears me when I tell her I want to buy a new pair of shoes because my old pair has a hole. But when my sister, Stella Woodson, mentions that she wants to eat a birthday cake, she immediately gives me some money and tells me to run through the rain to buy one. Only two shrimps are left on the table. I carefully ask if I can have one. The next second, Mom peels both shrimps and puts them on Stella's plate. She then turns to me with a confused expression, asking, "Did you say something, Luna? I didn't hear you." I hang my head in embarrassment and push the mashed potatoes around on my plate, mumbling that I didn't say anything. Later, Mom makes plans to take Stella to Destinyland to enjoy the night scenery. My body aches terribly. I carefully tug on Mom's sleeve and say, "I'm in a lot of pain, Mom." Mom gives me her usual response. "What did you say, Luna? I didn't hear you." She impatiently swats my hand away before I can get another word in, saying, "Stella and I are leaving now to handle some urgent business. Behave yourself while you're home alone."

My father, Don Vincenzo Cassano, added me to a private group chat. "La Famiglia." It was an accident. There were only three other people in it. My father. My mother. And a strange woman he had saved as "Our Treasure." They were planning a party for her. A lavish birthday party. And tomorrow? Tomorrow was my birthday. The tenth one in a row they’d forgotten. My mother’s text: "The ballroom must be draped in crystal. Make her a real princess." My father sent a wire. "Money is no object. Just don't let Aurelia find out. We don't need the drama." I screenshotted everything. A bitter sting in my chest. Fine. If they don’t love me, I'll burn their little stage to the ground. Just then, my brother Nico messaged me. The golden boy. The heir to the throne. He sent a screenshot of his own chat. Nico to Dad: "Is the 'surprise' for Aurelia ready? You promised me. This is the last time you lie to her like this."

My mother kept a red notebook recording all of my sister's favourite things. She had a blue notebook for me too. When my mother was hospitalized, I took leaves from work to take care of her. My sister had never shown up. However, my mother recorded in the blue notebook, '15th March, I am not well and am hospitalized. Celine owed me 450 dollars for food allowance. I knew that was not a notebook about my favourite things, but a notebook of all of my expenses. Behind the closed doors, Mother said to Father, "Celine is an evil person. She always likes to compete with her sister. We must take a chance to steal all her money and leave with Belle. Later when we are old, we will ask her to take care of us. I think we should just ask her to pay us back all the money we spent on her that I have recorded in this notebook. I was devastated at that moment.

After graduating from high school, my twin sister, Ella, and I were both accepted to Newland University. My parents put eighty thousand dollars in Ella's college fund and gave her a three-thousand-dollar monthly allowance, but put only eight thousand in mine and gave me three hundred a month. They took it for granted that I would move to Newland to look after her. The day the whole family threw a graduation party for my sister, I boarded a flight to the West Coast with a single suitcase and a full scholarship to one of the country's top engineering schools. What they didn't know was that the reporter who showed up that afternoon to interview "the outstanding Ashford graduate" had never been looking for my sister. The person they wanted was me, the daughter they'd already pushed out the door.

I have always known since I was young that I am not the Luther family's biological son. I accidentally break my younger brother Henry Luther's limited-edition figure while cleaning the room, and Dad punishes me by making me kneel in the rain all night. Dad actually defends Henry when he accidentally blinds me in one eye with a high-powered laser pointer, saying, "Henry didn't do it on purpose. He just got rowdy while playing around, Julian." Henry flashes me a triumphant smile once I go permanently blind in my right eye. "That's what you get for living in our house when you're nothing but an outsider!" I am nothing but an outsider to them. I have done everything I can to please them for the past 18 years, but I have never managed to become part of their family. I accidentally discover a shocking truth one day—the paternity test clearly proves that I am Dad's biological son, whereas Henry is the adopted one. In that instant, my breath catches in my throat.

On New Year's Eve, a crowd crush broke out, and I was carried into the field treatment tent along with Maya Bellamy, the underprivileged student my family had been sponsoring. My own brother, Derek Calder, the incident commander, glanced at me. My ribs were caved in, and I kept coughing up blood. Then he called every medic over to put ice on Maya's slightly twisted ankle. "Maya's dance final is coming up. Nothing can happen to that foot!" When I weakly begged him for help, he gave me a stern, self-righteous lecture. "I'm your brother. If I'm the first one to give you special treatment, what will all the injured people out there think of me? Act your age, and don't make trouble for me right now!" The pain had me on the verge of passing out. All I could do was grab my boyfriend, Ethan Kessler, when he rushed over. "Ethan, I can't breathe..." But he pried my hand off him, his face full of impatience. "You've had asthma since you were a kid, and you don't even carry your inhaler. How can you blame anyone else? "Maya was in the most dangerous part of the crowd, right in the middle. You were stuck out at the edge by the planters. How could you be hurt worse than she is? Why do you always have to compare yourself to her?" Then he carefully scooped Maya up in his arms and ran to the ambulance that had just arrived, without looking back. But he seemed to have forgotten that when the crowd went down, he was the one who shoved me into the surging mass of people, just to clear a safe spot for Maya. And my brother never noticed that the strange heaving of my chest meant my broken ribs had already pierced my organs.

I had been married to Derek for six years, and we had a three-year-old son. He was poor, earning only $2,000 a month, but I had no complaints; I took care of everything at home for him. After getting dinner on the table for the whole family, I finally had a minute to check my phone. A video popped up on my feed: a twenty-two-year-old girl from a rural area whose hands, roughened by years of hard labor, looked like they belonged to a sixty-two-year-old woman. I looked down at my own hands, just as worn and scarred, and stared at them blankly before tapping into the comments. I expected people to feel bad for her. However, to my surprise, the comments section was flooded with a single sentiment: "Why would anyone marry a penniless loser?" One of the top-liked comments came from a couple; in their photo, they were pictured holding hands—fingers tightly intertwined—with the girl sporting a massive diamond ring. The accompanying caption read: "A man who truly loves you would never bear to let you suffer." I felt a pang of envy. Given the choice, who wouldn't want a glamorous life? As I was about to close the app, I accidentally tapped on the couple's photo, enlarging it. In the background, previously too blurry to make out, was a face I recognized. It looked exactly like my husband, Derek Sterling. I froze, and almost against my will, I tapped into the account's profile. Post after post of lavish photos of them together flooded my screen. And then I saw him clearly. The scar above his brow, the one he got when a shelf fell on him while protecting me, was still plainly visible. It was my husband. It was Derek.

After my adopted younger sister, Candace Lane, is reunited with her birth parents, she develops severe psychological issues. Hence, to go along with her treatment, every Thanksgiving becomes the one day when everyone will spoil her. No matter what she requests on that day, nobody is allowed to refuse. This Thanksgiving, Candace takes off her hat to reveal the scar on her forehead and the jagged mess that is her hair. "A few days ago, I had an episode and cut off my hair. Since Lena's hair is so long, it would be perfect to cut and make into a wig for me." I set down my cutlery and slowly shake my head. I haven't cut my hair in 18 years, all because I want my parents to be the ones to cut it for me on my wedding day. Seeing as that day is coming soon, I plan on buying Candace a wig for now. "Maybe you should—Mmph!" Before I can get more than a few words out, Dad has already pressed a warning hand on my shoulder, while my fiancé, Peter Lipton, shakes his head at me and stuffs a bite of spicy lobster into my mouth. Mom heads for the kitchen and returns with a pair of scissors. With a snip, she cuts my hair off to ear length. As Candace's lips curve into a smile, my heart thoroughly shatters in my chest. Eight years. For the past eight years, she has taken away something of mine during every Thanksgiving. A rosary necklace Mom gifted me, a beautiful emerald bangle from Grandma—it didn't matter. Even when Candace already has something better than mine, she still wants to take mine. Peter leans over to murmur in my ear, "This is Candace trying to save herself, so we have to go along with her wishes. With us by your side, all those materialistic things aren't important. If it truly bothers you that much, we can always just wait till your hair grows back before we marry." Peter is her psychologist, and turning Thanksgiving into the day everyone spoils Candace is also his idea. The spiciness of the lobster has tears springing to my eyes. Shoving Peter away from me, I rush to the bathroom. As I stare at my messed-up hair and red lips, swollen due to my shellfish allergy, more tears well in my eyes. This time, I'm not waiting for anyone anymore.

As my murderer's claws tear into my abdomen inch by inch, my father and brother are seated in our family's banquet hall. They're celebrating Carly's 18th birthday and coming-of-age. "You'll always be my little girl." "Happy birthday, Carly." They light 18 pink candles for her. On top of the exquisite red velvet cake is a wolf figurine that they carved for her, and there are well wishes and laughter all around. Meanwhile, I'm curled up in a sewer filled with liquid silver as I bleed to death. My phone has been crushed, and I can't get out. I can only cry for help. A few days later, my father and brother show up together at the autopsy room. My brother stands by the operating table with a scalpel. He slices open the body and sews it back up like it's nothing. My father just covers his nose as he shoots a disgusted glance at my body. He urges my brother to hurry up with the autopsy report. "The victim is a young female wolf presumed to be of pure lineage. Before her death, she was subjected to prolonged captivity and torture. Her throat is nearly severed, her cervical spine is dislocated, and her chest cavity has collapsed. She was also injected with liquid silver before death." Hearing the report, my father looks so calm that it's just like a case study of no consequence. Neither of them can recognize that the body belongs to me—their daughter and sister!

My parents, Leander and Valentina Rhodes, were cutthroat capitalists through and through, bringing the company’s toxic corporate culture right into our home. Eating a serving of pork ribs meant a performance deduction. Using the washing machine required paying a depreciation fee. Just to survive, I spent day and night coding and developing software. Finally, a photo-editing app I developed completely on my own went viral, earning my parents’ company $7 million. At the celebration dinner, my eldest sister, Sienna Rhodes, who managed HR, received a $70,000 bonus. My youngest sister, Delphine Rhodes, who worked in business development, walked away with a brand-new Porsche. Meanwhile, my paycheck showed nothing more than my unchanging $600 base salary. “Sienna hired two cleaners for the company. That’s called building talent pipeline infrastructure—she deserves a reward!” “Delphine took a client out for a steak dinner and secured the distribution deal. That’s expanding our territory—she deserves a massive bonus!” Finally, my parents shoved a supermarket gift card into my hand. “As for you, Evangeline, all you do is sit at your desk, tapping away on a keyboard in the air conditioning. There’s really nothing to reward.” “Still, Sienna and Delphine spoke up on your behalf, so take this gift card.” Ever since we were kids, Sienna was the family decision-maker; everything she said was taken seriously. Delphine was the baby of the family, showered with love—even when she made a mistake, it was always someone else’s fault. As for me, stuck in the middle, it felt like I was born to be forgotten. Even though I was supposed to be the star of this celebration dinner, no one remembered. No one cared. Watching the four of them laughing and enjoying their happy family moment, I silently put down the gift card. Then, I opened a text message from a rival tech giant offering me an $8 million annual salary package.

I was the perfect daughter, always obedient and never questioning my parents' wishes. Yet, on the very day I finished my SATs, I became bound to a system that demanded disobedience. Whatever my parents told me to do, the system always made me do the opposite. When they told me to eat less to maintain my figure, the system commanded me to eat until I was stuffed. When they told me to wash the dishes and mop the floors to develop basic life skills, the system ordered me to walk away the moment I finished eating. Watching the shock and disappointment on my parents' faces, I closed the front door through my tears. Sobbing, I tried to reason with the system. "My brother said it's dangerous outside at night. I need to go home." The system didn't care. It forced me to attend a class reunion that evening. Terrified, I protested, "My parents said none of my classmates are decent people! I'm not going! Going out this late is practically asking for trouble!” "You'll die if you keep listening to them!" the system reprimanded me sternly.

In my previous life, I was taken away by a poor family. My younger sister, Elsa, was adopted by a wealthy family instead. Unexpectedly, Elsa only got to live there for less than five years before getting cast out. She ended up dying on the streets. Meanwhile, I got into the best school thanks to my outstanding grades. Then, I furthered my studies overseas with my adoptive older brother, Flynn Cullen. With my own hands, I built my own business empire brick by brick. Years later, Flynn and I received our parents' blessings and got married. Soon, we had children of our own. I had a happy and smooth-sailing life. Now, I'm reborn. This time, Elsa makes an entirely different choice. She runs into Flynn's arms and greets him in a sweet tone. After taking the adoptive parents' hands, she shoots a smug glance in my direction. "Enya, you should have a taste of the suffering that comes with that wealthy family. I can't bear to spend a moment longer in that cruel place!" I looked at Flynn, hoping that he'd say something. Instead, I saw him shielding Elsa from me protectively. He just looked at me icily. "Don't get close to my sister!" In the end, I walked toward the limo while Elsa watched me victoriously from behind.

After I started college, my mother announced that she would be giving me my living expenses in installments. "Hank, you're grown up now. To teach you how to manage your money, I've decided to give you your living expenses in installments." At first, I assumed she meant she would send my allowance once a month. At worst, maybe once a week. But on the day I checked in, she walked around the cafeteria, then transferred $6.80 to my bank account. I stared at her in confusion. "Mom, you sent the wrong amount." She shook her head with a smile. "Silly boy, that's your lunch money for today. I already picked out the cheapest meal for you. Just get the set lunch from that place. From now on, you can apply to me for the cost of each meal based on this amount." I was completely stunned. So when she said "installments," she did not mean monthly or even weekly. She meant every single meal. But by the third day, I was standing at the breakfast counter, struggling to come up with the $1.50 I needed for an egg. When I asked my mother for money, she refused. Instead, she simply said, "I paid for your brother's house in full yesterday. I don't have any extra cash on hand right now. Missing one meal won't kill you, will it?" The cafeteria lady looked at me with surprise and pity. That look burned a hole straight through my already fragile pride. That day, I held the egg the lady had given me and searched for a part-time job. Yet, when I no longer needed my mother, she was the one who panicked.

My parents are music professors, and their university is always hosting these music salons and exchange events. But they never took me. After I graduated from college, I was desperate to see what it was like, so I begged my mother for a visitor's pass. She was busy helping my sister Ella fill out an application for one of those concerts, and she cut me off cold: "Everyone attending is a top-tier musician. You can't even read sheet music—walking in there, you'd just stick out like a sore thumb." A few days later, I stood in the freezing wind, listening to the applause rolling out from the auditorium. My sister stood at center stage, performing alongside a bunch of renowned musicians. That night, my mom posted a proud photo of Ella's performance on social media. Graceful. Composed. Radiant. The comments were all flattery—until one relative asked: [Why didn't you bring your Seraphina along to soak up some of the spotlight?] My mom replied: [She has zero musical talent. Too much of a philistine. Not her scene.] I stared at my phone, glancing at the six-figure offer from Wall Street, and let out a helpless laugh. My mom always favored the kid she thought was brilliant—never had a clue that I was shining somewhere else entirely. Three days left until I move out of Ohio for good. I'm taking everything she called "philistine" about me and walking out of her precious little music kingdom forever.