Chubby Dumpling
I have a bad habit. I always say I’ll do something, but whether I actually follow through is another story.
When I was eight, my adoptive father stole an e-bike and told me to keep watch.
I patted my chest confidently. “Don’t worry. If anyone comes, I’ll tell you!”
Then I squatted by the curb and got distracted watching a trail of ants.
Twenty minutes later, my adoptive father was hauled away in a police car, along with the stolen battery.
Later, I was kidnapped.
The trafficker told me to sit still and keep quiet.
I nodded eagerly. “Okay, sir!”
Then I rolled down the window and waved at everyone outside.
“Hi! My uncle told me not to make any noise!”
By the time we’d driven three blocks, the police had received more than a dozen calls.
As the officers dragged him out of the car, the trafficker broke down.
“I’ve been doing this for ten years, and I’ve never had a job go this horribly wrong!”
That was how my DNA ended up in a database for missing and trafficked children.
Four years later, my wealthy biological parents found me.
On my first day in their mansion, the girl who had taken my place came to me holding a bracelet.
“Nina, this bracelet has been in the Bennett family for generations. You’re their biological daughter, so it rightfully belongs to you.”
I agreed without hesitation. “Sure. I’ll take it!”
Then she ran crying into Mom’s arms and claimed I’d stolen the bracelet Grandma had left her.
My brother flew into a rage and kicked open my bedroom door.
“Nina Bennett! How dare you steal Fiona’s bracelet and humiliate her?”
I looked up at him in confusion.
“What bracelet?”
“Don’t play dumb!”
He was about to have my room searched when the butler rushed in.
“Mrs. Bennett, this bracelet has been sitting in the foyer the whole time. One of the housekeepers nearly put it away with the costume jewelry.”