Substitute Biological Family Short Stories & Novels

My flight was suddenly canceled, so I dragged my suitcase back home. As soon as I stepped inside, I saw torn black stockings scattered on the floor. This was the eighth time Simon Jones had brought a different woman home. The sound of running water and a young woman’s laughter echoed from the bathroom. I didn’t cry or make a scene. Instead, I sat quietly on the couch, waiting for them to finish. Everyone assumed I would continue being Simon’s devoted fool like before. But no one knew that the man I truly loved had returned. After tonight, Simon, the stand-in, would be discarded.

I discover Quilton Fuller's affair before our wedding, so I lie to him about having aborted our child. He hates me for that and gets engaged to a woman who looks just like me. On his wedding day, he video-calls me, wanting to show me his bride. However, he's greeted by the sight of me bloody and battered after being tormented by abductors. I beg him to at least save the baby in my womb, but he says to the abductors, "You'd better kill her and her child."

Everyone in the social circle of Kingsford said I was nothing more than a lapdog raised by Charles Mankin. I was always at his beck and call. I did every filthy, ludicrous thing for him under the sun. When he street raced, I rode shotgun. When he drank himself senseless, I made him hangover soup. When he chased girls, I prepared protection for them. Over time, everyone knew: Charles had a dog who never ran, never bit back, no matter how hard he kicked. They all said I must be madly in love with him. Even Charles started to believe it. So he pushed further, more freely, more cruelly, crossing lines as if they never existed. Then came my twenty-fifth birthday. He, in a rare stroke of mercy, said he'd celebrate it with me. But instead, what he got was the news that I was leaving the country. He went berserk, charging through the airport like a man possessed. I peeled his fingers off my wrist one by one, smiling like I'd never been happier. "Don't be stupid," I told him, still smiling. "That was never love." That night, Charles smashed apart his family home like a rabid dog.

A car accident leaves me unconscious for a full three years. When I wake up, my family bursts into tears of joy. They care for me with the utmost attention. But from their behavior, I sense something is wrong. There are women's clothes in the house that don't fit me. My mother's shopping cart is filled with mysterious baby items. My father's friends send congratulatory messages about a new child, and my husband is always working overtime. When my husband once again leaves me alone under the pretext that there is something urgent at the company, I secretly follow him. Inside a warmly decorated house, my parents and husband sit around a table. A woman who looks almost exactly like me is holding a baby just a few months old, gently coaxing the child to call my husband "Daddy".

The day I was finally welcomed back into the Salazar family, Nathaniel Salazar—the frail adopted son they'd raised in my place—died from heart failure. My sister, Alyssa, shaved her head and withdrew from the world, claiming she wanted to soothe Nathaniel's restless soul. My parents had lost two children in a single night, and they blamed me for both. To make amends, they decided my heart would one day be donated to a distant young relative suffering from the same condition. After all, that little boy had been Nathaniel's favorite person in the world. From that day on, I was forbidden from drinking, smoking, staying up late, or doing anything that might damage my health. They called it redemption for my brother. For ten years, I lived like a spare part, a replacement waiting for the day I would finally be needed. Then, three days before the transplant surgery, I saw Nathaniel in the hospital. He was alive. He was curled up against Alyssa's shoulder, acting spoiled while our parents watched with indulgent smiles. Alyssa gently stroked his hair. "Don't be scared, Nathaniel. Jordan's healthy heart will be yours soon. After this, you'll never be sick again." I lowered my eyes to the results of my pre-surgery examination: stage IV stomach cancer with multiple organ failure. Not a single organ was suitable for transplantation.

For as long as I can remember, I know I'm nothing more than a stand-in for my deceased older sister, Jenna Lockwood. The day before starting elementary school, Mom and Dad take me to buy a backpack. With a wide smile, Mom asks me, "Blue or red—which one do you want?" When I choose blue, Mom's expression changes instantly. She clamps her hands onto my shoulders and screams hysterically at me, "Why didn't you choose red? Jenna would only ever choose red!" Dad slaps me right across the face when he sees that Mom is having another episode. The blood running from my nose is a glaring, bright red. From then on, I don't dare to pick anything except the red items Jenna would have liked. Once, while playing with my classmates, some glue gets stuck in my braid, so my teacher kindly cuts it off for me. But when Mom comes to pick me up, she completely loses it. "Jenna has long hair. You're not my daughter!" She shoves me off the back of the bike, and I run after her, crying. It takes me half an hour to get home. To avoid triggering Mom any further, I begin imitating Jenna in every way. It's not until after the SATs, and I get named top scorer, that Mom demands I apply to a vocational college near our home. "Jenna was accepted to this same college back then. You have to go!" My teacher calls to reason with her, but Mom shuts her down with a few sentences. "If Jenna hadn't died, Jennifer would never have even been born. She wouldn't have had the chance to be the top scorer at all!" As I watch her spiral into hysterics, I suddenly feel that everything is meaningless. Since I have to imitate Jenna in every way, then I have to ensure I meet the same ending she had at 18—death by drowning.