My Sister Claimed I Stole Her Baby
My sister, Bella, had a baby in a back-alley shithole.
Then she disappeared.
A midwife tracked me down using an address Bella left behind.
She shoved the newborn at me like a sack of garbage.
My parents fell to their knees. Crying. Begging me to take her bastard.
Just like that, my future as a promising artist was gone.
The neighbors, the priest, my landlord… they all called me a whore. A sinner who had disgraced God.
They ran me out of the neighborhood .
My life was over.
Eighteen years later, Bella waltzed back into my life.
A cheap thug with a fake Rolex dangled from her arm.
She held my son, crocodile tears streaming down her face.
She called me jealous. Accused me of stealing her flesh and blood. Of keeping a mother from her child.
And my son? The one I bled myself dry for?
The son I poured every last cent into, turning him into a brilliant painter?
The son I starved for, so much that I ended up in a hospital bed?
The moment he saw his "real" mother, he cast me aside without a second thought.
"You pathetic, broke bitch!" he spat. "You stole everything from us! All the happiness that was supposed to be ours!"
My parents threw me out like a dog.
Bella's thug husband had his men corner me in the red-light district.
They pinned me against a wall, their threats vile and clear: Never come back.
I had no way out. I threw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge.
Then, I opened my eyes.
I was back. Eighteen years in the past.
Then came the knock. Hell had found my door.
I wasn’t going to be the fool who gave everything and got nothing.
This time, I took control.