She Wasn't My Daughter Novels & Stories

"No… That's impossible!" My mother's face went deathly pale as she whipped around to stare at Lilith. Lilith's eyes darted away. She stumbled back in panic. "Mom, don't listen to her! She's lying because she's jealous! I'm your daughter!" "You knew?" My mother rushed over and grabbed Lilith by the shoulders. "Didn't you always say you remembered things from when you were little?" "I… I…" Lilith stammered, unable to finish a sentence.

Aurora collapsed to the floor, and in an instant, bright red blood spread beneath her. Even in that moment, she reached out and said “Mom” with the last ounce of her strength. She was looking straight at me and calling out to me! I had raised her for twelve years. How could there not be love between us? She was innocent. This was all Sam and Jennifer’s fault! I buried my face in my hands and wept in silence. There was no home invasion, no gas leak, and no explosion. I was the one who had killed my daughter.

This was not her Jane Dunn! This was not her daughter! Her daughter was the most youthful and prideful red rose in all of Shanghai! W-who… are you!”

Summer woke up to my parents hugging each other in tears. She said mockingly, "You can drop the act. Even if Sienna is alive, she won't want to be your daughter. You two were much crueller than I was. Sienna wouldn't have been so miserable if it weren't for you two." Summer no longer cared about anything. Every single sentence she said was to provoke them. In the end, my parents left the hospital in a huff. They spent the next few days handling my funeral.

Little slut who likes money. ” Sweetheart, are you okay?” She asks and walks in. She shuts the door and sits on the desk. ” I’m not.” She sighs and runs her fingers down my hair. ” What happened?” She asks. ” I… I have a daughter.” I state. She blinks her eyes and stares at me blankly. ” A daughter? What daughter?” ” I once had a daughter. Thought I lost her but I got her back.” ” You had a daughter? Sin you couldn’t even tell me. Why didn’t you tell me?”

She stuttered, peeling her fingers aggressively. “She is my daughter.” The woman's elegant voice spoke from the table. She was the only one who didn't wear an unreadable expression.

Her tone was pleading. So that's why she came back. She didn't want to see me or say she was sorry or be a mother. It shouldn't hurt so much, but it did. Old ghosts I should have exorcised years ago. Placing a hand to my head to stop the pounding, I looked at her. "You want to take my home from me? I grew up here. Dad died here. My whole life is in this house. My studio, my-" Sharon shook her head as if in disbelief. "Twenty years have gone by and I don't know my daughter."

I didn’t bother thinking about Evan’s reaction if he found out that I was out. Theresa reduced her voice to a whisper and muttered, “It seems like she found out that she isn’t your father’s daughter.” Her whisper made my feet stop shuffling; no matter how hard I tried to move them, they remained at the spot, unyielding. My pulse raced as Theresa’s words echoed in my head. She isn’t my father’s daughter? What does she mean? I didn’t ask any more questions. I ended the call immediately after I got released from the spell her words cast on me.

"Bring him back right now." She shook her head slowly. "I cannot." "Why not?" I screamed. "If you did this, you can undo it! You have to!" "He had to die for us to meet again," she said, and her voice was gentle. Too gentle. "Like this. Daughter." The word hit me like a slap. Daughter. This woman who had abandoned me, who had let me grow up thinking I was alone in the world, was calling me daughter. I stood slowly, my hands still covered in Darragh's blood. Around us, I could hear the sounds of battle. Sentinels were flooding the room, shouting orders, but their voices seemed to come from very far away.

She looks somehow smaller and bigger than I remember—like fear peeled away all her layers at once. “You’re going,” she says. “Yes.” She crosses the room in three strides and grabs my face, just like when I was little and bloody-kneed. “You are not a story,” she whispers, fierce and trembling. “You are not an answer to a riddle. You are my daughter.” Those words almost break me. “I know,” I whisper back. “Then don’t go.” “I have to.” Her hands shake. “No. You want to.” That lands like a slap. I don’t argue.