Plot Twists Short Stories & Independence Biological Family Novels

After the scores are out, I head home with my results slip, which indicates that I'm a top scorer in the entire city. My heart's brimming with excitement as I'm ready to share the good news with my family. I'm about to push the door open when I unexpectedly receive a video call from my future self from four years later. The me on the screen looks utterly haggard. I freeze for a moment, but I still can't stop myself from chirping like a child who's asking for a piece of candy, "Are you really me four years from now? Are Mom and Dad finally proud of me? Do they love me as much as they love my sister now?" My future self smiles, yet she can't keep her tears at bay. "Whatever you do, don't tell them your score! They won't be proud of you. They'll only use your sister's failure to get into college and her threats to end her own life as an excuse to force you to give up your place at college for her!" All of a sudden, I feel as though I've plunged into an icy abyss. On the day I reunite with my family, Mom and Dad take my younger sister, Winona Fairchild, out for fine dining while they hand me a plate of stone-cold leftovers. They tell me that after years of fending for myself, my stomach's too weak to handle anything too fancy. Naively, I believe that if I become good enough, I can bridge that ten-year gap and make them look at me the same way they look at Winona. As it turns out, blood ties can never outweigh years of companionship. As I listen to Mom and Dad comfort Winona over her poor performance on the exam, I fold my results slip neatly and tuck it deep into my pocket. Since they only view me as a cash cow, I have no reason to tell them that I've been accepted into Pennington College.

This year, as the country's leading neurosurgeon, I was invited to perform a high-profile specialist surgery at a hospital in another state. Twenty years ago, I stood in this very operating room. My mother suffered a cerebral hemorrhage, and the surgeon's hand slipped by less than a quarter of an inch. She died. Back then, it was my first love, Ethan Lancaster, who helped me through the grief. Only later did I learn the truth. The surgeon listed on the case was Ethan's father, the hospital's renowned Chief of Neurosurgery. But the one actually holding the scalpel was Ethan himself, still a surgical resident at the time. He and Vanessa Hart had planned it all along. They used my mother's operation as a practice case to advance his career. After the tragedy, Vanessa used her status as the hospital director's daughter to bury the entire incident. From that day forward, I gave up my guaranteed research placement and sat for medical school entrance exams again. I studied from undergraduate through postdoctoral training. I spent twenty full years turning myself into the kind of surgeon who would never make that mistake. All so that one day, no one else would have to suffer the same tragedy my mother did. Today, my assistant slid a patient's file across the desk. Brainstem tumor. Late stage. Extremely high risk. The face in the photo had aged considerably, but I recognized it at a glance. I handed the file back to my assistant and removed my surgical coat. “I can't perform this surgery.”

Mom's words hold immense weight, but she only speaks one sentence each month. When a bankrupt businessman begs for her blessing, his life turns around the next day. When a childless tycoon begs her to bless him with a child, his wife is pregnant before a month has passed. But all my life, she has never spoken a complete sentence to me. When it was time to choose which university to apply to, Mom merely shook her head. "If you apply…" Her unfinished sentence kept me awake all night. I took her meaning the wrong way, and in the end, I lost the university I had dreamed about getting into for ten years. Then, my younger sister, who had scored less than me, somehow snagged a spot there. Yet, she only smiled shyly and said, "I just got lucky." After graduation, a prestigious foreign company came knocking. However, Mom simply gave a cold warning. "Maybe it's a trap…" So, I took her advice and joined a company that has me working overtime day after day. Yet, my younger sister joined that foreign company, and she ended up with a high salary and weekends off. Three days before my wedding, Mom looks at my fiance. As always, she only says, "The happiness you have now is only temporary…" I toss and turn, unable to sleep. But as I pass my younger sister's room, I hear Mom's gentle voice. "First, I pray that Zara and Evan grow old together, surrounded by children and grandchildren. Second, I hope they live happily without any misfortune…" She talks all night. I listen from the other side of the door the entire time. It's only when my tears run dry that I finally understand. It isn't that Mom can't speak. She simply doesn't want to talk to me. Since her words are never meant for me, she has no reason to involve herself in the rest of my life.

After my sister was born, my mother's love turned into a game decided by a coin toss. Mom had a custom gold coin made: the flower side stood for my sister, and the number side stood for me. For ten years, that coin decided who got the bigger slice of cake, who got a new dress, and even who went to the doctor when we were sick. But the number side never once landed face up. I cried, because none of it was fair, and Mom just looked at me coldly and said, "Your luck is worse than hers. Who are you going to blame for that?" The day my acceptance letter from the elite prep school arrived, all I wanted was a steak cooked by Mom. So I secretly swapped in a rigged coin engraved with a number on both sides. The coin hit the floor. Mom spotted the trick at once and kicked me hard, through the doorway and into my room. "You vicious little rotten thing. Get in there and think about what you did!" She didn't know that when she kicked me across the room, my head slammed into the sharp corner of my desk. Blood flooded my vision in an instant, and the pain was so intense I couldn't make a sound. I crawled toward the half-open door in desperation. I got a hand on the panel and tried to pull myself upright to call for help, and then a dead, silent dizziness rolled over me. My legs gave out, and my body, already unconscious, pitched straight forward. The momentum of my fall yanked the wooden door shut with a bang! I lay there limp as mud, and my own weight wedged that inward-opening door shut for good. Mom's furious voice came through from the hall. "So now you've got an attitude? Slamming doors at me? Then you can starve in there! "Don't be scared, Chloe. Mommy's taking you out for a big seafood dinner." Her heels receded down the hall as warm blood spread across the floor, inch by inch. I'm sorry, Mom. In my next life, I'll win with my own luck.

My parents have never known how to take care of anyone. Growing up, every time I get sick, they just send me money and tell me to go buy medicine myself. One time, my appendicitis flares up, and the doctor says it's best to have a family member present for the surgery. I grip my phone, going back and forth in my head, before I finally call my mom. "Mom, can you come to the hospital and stay with me?" She agrees right away on the phone, but by the time my surgery is over, she still hasn't shown up. The only thing keeping me company is a 200-dollar transfer sitting on my screen. I lie in the hospital bed and tell myself that maybe this is just how my family is. We don't know how to show we care. Someone gets sick, money gets sent, medicine gets bought, and everyone moves on. Then, my sister's exams end, and I happen to be home for a few days that summer when she comes down with a fever. Out of habit, I look over at my mom, expecting her to send my sister 200 dollars. But instead, my mom panics, immediately calls out of work, and insists on taking my sister to the hospital herself. My voice comes out hoarse. "Isn't the deal just to send money and let her buy medicine herself?" My brother glares at me. "How can you be so cold-hearted? People are at their most vulnerable when they're sick. They need family by their side." My dad nods along, and the words "I've always gone to the hospital alone" die in my throat before I can say them. I don't argue. I don't make a scene. I just feel an overwhelming sense of relief that my college is a thousand miles away from all of them.

For ten years, I woke at three every morning to knead dough for my breakfast stall, all so I could put my daughter through college. Hot oil splattered across my arms day after day, leaving scars on my forearms that would never fully fade. But today, just when I desperately needed the money to keep my stall open, I discovered that the $200,000 in my bank account was gone. It was not until I got the bank statement that I learned the truth. My daughter had reconnected with her biological mother back in middle school. All these years, she had been secretly transferring money to her. When I confronted her over the phone, I cried so hard I could barely breathe. "That money was our retirement savings!" But she only laughed impatiently. "Stop saying you raised me. You didn't even give birth to me. My biological mother is the one who gave me life. Consider the money you spent on me your way of showing her respect." The call ended with a cold beep. It felt like a blade had been driven straight through my heart. I rushed home like a madwoman to find my husband. I thought he would at least feel sorry for us losing our retirement savings. Instead, he sat calmly on the couch and took a sip of coffee. "Blood runs thicker than water. Stop being so selfish." That $200,000 was the money we needed to survive. And he was actually lecturing me about blood ties, when he was nothing more than her adoptive father too.

The day I finish my college entrance exam, I drag my suitcase back to my parents' house downtown. When Mom opens the door, the first thing she says is, "Now that your college entrance exam is over, stay home for a while." She says a while, not for good. There are three children in our family. My older brother, Samuel Stroud, and my younger sister, Isabelle Stroud, have always lived with our parents, while I was raised by my grandparents. Samuel has his own study, while Isabelle has her own bedroom. I sleep in the living room. Everything they give me is temporary. My toothbrush is disposable, my slippers are disposable, and even my towel is disposable. I don't even have a key to the house. "You don't come home often," Mom always says. "What do you need a key for?" So every time I come back, I stand outside the door like a guest, waiting for someone to let me in. But this time, they finally give me a key. Samuel places it in my palm with a smile. "We're going on a trip for a few days. You can stay home and get some proper rest." On the coffee table sit four plane tickets, neatly arranged in a row. They're for Dad, Mom, Samuel, and Isabelle—but not me. I look down at the key I've waited 12 years to have, and suddenly, I laugh. I finally understand why they gave it to me. It isn't a key meant to welcome me home. It's a reminder that it's time for me to leave.