Trash Of Counts Family Novels & Stories

I used to be the apple of my family's eye, but Suzanne Nilson changed that when she showed up on my birthday with a DNA test result. The Nilson family cruelly kicks me to the curb and throws me back to my biological parents, leading to me being sold off to the village idiot. Xavier Gubbens, with whom I've grown up, kicks the door down and saves me. Later, he etches a word on my face. "Do you think you're done repenting for your sins with this, Suzanne Nilson?" Later still, his eyes are red as he pleads, "Can't we go back to how things used to be?" How things used to be? There's no such thing. Everyone has to look to the future.

My family was attacked by rogue wolves when we entered their territory. My wolf was gravely injured, and in the end, I was the one who saved everyone.
As I collapsed, exhausted, no one came to me—they all ran to my adopted sister, Fiona, fussing over a few shallow scratches.
By the time pack members carried me to the infirmary, the healer delivered the cruel news: my wolf had been struck by a silver dagger, and the one-month-old pup in my womb wouldn’t survive.
Yet my mate, Luke, had given the only life-saving treatment to Fiona. With no other choice, I refused the healer’s remedies and numbed my wolf’s pain with crude herbs—knowing it would only buy us three days before death.
In those last days, I let everything go. I gave Fiona all my possessions and insurance money while my parents smiled in approval. I signed the bond-severing agreement Luke slid across the table without a second thought. Luke was satisfied, believing I was considerate. Kane, my brother, nodded his head when I told him to give my room to Fiona.
Even my son, Jim, squealed with joy when I asked him to call her “mom.” No one questioned why I gave all my belongings to Fiona, and their approving gazes said it all: “Good. The old Emma is back. But as the clock ticked down, one thought haunted me:
When they find our bodies—my wolf and my unborn pup—will that satisfaction turn to regret?

The day cancer spread through my whole body, my family took me to court for being heartless and cruel. All because I refused to donate my kidney to the fake daughter, even though I was a perfect match. When they saw me lying in the coffin, my sister, who never liked me, said, “What a drama queen! Even got yourself a coffin this time.” Even my parents despised me and said, “If you want to die, at least cut out your kidney first and go die somewhere else. Don’t die in front of us and make us sick.” But later, when the memory extractor cut into my brain, it revealed all the times I had been tortured by that fake daughter over the years. The family that despised me went insane at that moment.

A nurse, who has won a prestigious award for her career in the past, reveals a truth before passing away. "I don't have any regrets in this lifetime. The only thing I'm sorry about is the fact that I've helped switched babies for a woman ten years ago. "That woman came from a wealthy family, and yet she intended to show her child tough love. That's why she chose to swap her baby for the one belonging to a pair of beggars living in the slums. "I helped her conceal the entire incident. For that, I feel very sorry for that woman's biological child." At the moment, I'm sitting in a hut amid the rampant weeds. Scars criss-cross over every inch of my body. My gaze remains numb as I quietly apply medication to myself while listening to the news. Suddenly, someone knocks on the front door. When I open it, I see a wealthy-looking woman dressed in fancy clothes. "Ella, I'm here!" She pulls me into a hug, her eyes already red-rimmed. "From today onward, the tough-love parenting is over! Now, I'm going to take you home!" The old radio keeps emitting crackling noises as it repeats the nurse's final words. For a moment, I'm stunned. Then, I push the woman away and conceal my limping leg. My eyes are as hollow as the abyss. "You got the wrong person, ma'am."

The day I died, the baby in my womb was only five months old. In that final phone call, my father, John Harlow, the godfather of the Harlow family, spoke with a voice as icy as a loaded gun. "A married woman belongs to her husband's family, even in death." When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day I had been placed under house arrest. He was circling my college application with a red pen. "Girls who study art are easier to marry off." In front of him, I tore the family's marriage alliance files into pieces. "I'm going to Camford University. I'm studying Computer Science." He sprang to his feet so suddenly that his finger nearly jabbed my face, his sleeve cuff revealing the family crest tattoo. "If you dare defy me, don't ever regard me as godfather." I smiled. "Exactly what I want." Meeting his stunned gaze, I spoke each word deliberately. "The name Harlow. I have long stopped wanting it."

When I was seven years old, my younger brother went into anaphylactic shock after sneaking a handful of peanuts. Outside the emergency room, my mother slammed my head against the wall over and over, her face twisted with rage. "If you had been watching him like you were supposed to be, this never would have happened! You should be the one with a ruptured stomach, not him!" After that, whenever my brother so much as caught a cold, my mother forced me to eat spoiled leftovers as punishment. I once prepared an elaborate feast. She flipped the entire table and made me crawl on the floor to lick it clean. When I said I wanted to study culinary arts, she poured hot oil over my hands. My father wanted to send me to vocational school to learn a trade, but my mother clutched my brother to her chest and wailed. "She destroyed her brother's health! She owes him a lifetime of service!" When I was fifteen, my brother's gluttony cost my father an important business deal. I took the blame without even being asked, and the furious client forced me to drink more than half a gallon of hard liquor. By the time I was sent home with a bleeding stomach, my father had already scolded my brother. My mother took out her anger on me instead, slapping me so hard my ears rang and my vision went dark at the edges. "You useless thing! You should’ve choked to death at that table! I get sick just looking at you!" I coughed up black blood. From my pocket, I pulled out a piece of sour candy that had gone soft and sticky. It was the only treat my mother had ever given me with a smile, back before my brother's allergic reaction. I put the candy in my mouth and swallowed it down with the taste of stomach acid. The candy was so sour it made my throat burn. Whatever came next, I just hoped I would not have to be my family’s garbage disposal again.

To encourage overall development, the kindergarten had asked each student to create a hand-drawn poster. My daughter Holly refused my help and insisted on doing it all on her own. Little did I know, most of the other children had their parents do the artwork for them. In comparison, Holly's delicate strokes were quickly dismissed. Not only was her work discarded into the trash, but her teacher also called her out in the parent group, criticizing her for being careless with the assignment. As I racked my brain trying to figure out how to help Holly regain her confidence in drawing, I was surprised to see Holly's artwork among the winning entries in the state-level children's art competition. But the signature wasn't hers—it belonged to another student from her class.

When my brother, Adrian Carter, storms out of the house in anger, I go out in the pouring rain to find him—only to be struck by a fallen live wire, resulting in the complete loss of both my arms. From then on, I, who dreamed of becoming a doctor, have been doomed to be a patient forever. I make multiple attempts on my life. My family wrestles me back from the clutches of death every time. Adrian crouches down in front of me and begs, "It's my fault. Please don't die." Mom quits her job and keeps me company all day long. "You mean more to me than my life! What am I supposed to do if you're gone?" To earn more money and help me regain the ability to live normally, Dad works as hard as he can and even takes on more work abroad. I assume that life will eventually get better. But after I've finally learned how to use my feet in place of my hands for everything, I inadvertently overhear a conversation. "If I'd known this would happen, I wouldn't have stopped her from killing herself." The next day, I climb to the rooftop alone. The wind is howling. It makes me sniffle, but no tears fall.

It was my birthday. I thought he would take me to see the fireworks by the sea, but he showed up with another woman and her child. “Vera has a kid with her, and it’s inconvenient for them. Be a little understanding. She doesn’t know her way around here, and she has a lot of luggage. I’ll just drop them at the hotel.” He said it so casually, as if he were just explaining some trivial, everyday chore. It was that very gentleness of his that made me feel like I was so unreasonable getting angry over it. He helped them into the car. He leaned down to buckle the seatbelt on the child. Then, he turned to me with a smile. “I’ll be right back. Don’t overthink things.” I stood by the roadside and watched them drive away like a picture-perfect little family. As night fell, the sea breeze turned sharp and biting. Still, I waited until a notification of Vera Cannon’s social feed update lit up my screen. He was holding her daughter in his arms. They were watching the fireworks by the beach. It was a surprise I had planned for my own birthday. The comments poured in. [What a perfect match. What a beautiful little family!] Someone asked him why he was not picking me up. He just smiled and said, “Indy is very patient. She won’t be mad.” At that moment, my birthday cake melted into a puddle of frosting. I finally realized that he had not done that to be cruel to me. He was certain that I would always wait for him. However, even the warmest heart grew cold when neglected too many times. The waves crashed against the shore, over and over. With each crash, another shred of my hope washed away. This time, I was not going to wait for him to come back.

This is my first time meeting my partner's family as their future daughter-in-law. A few minutes after taking my seat, my future mother-in-law, Joana Carrell, suddenly speaks up. "I've conducted a premarital test on you, but you've only scored 30 points. You have no right to marry into my family!" I never expect that I'll be tested, to begin with. The results leave me feeling shell-shocked. But Joana continues prattling on and on. "When you walked through the front door, the stool at the doorway was crooked, but you never readjusted it. You got ten points deducted for that. "The trash can in the living room was full, but you ignored it and never took the initiative to empty it. That'll be 20 points deducted. "When you washed the fruits in the kitchen, you saw a pile of dishes in the sink, and yet you didn't wash them. That's 40 points lost! "Altogether, you scored 30 points, which means you've failed the test. Hence, you aren't worthy of becoming a daughter-in-law of the Yarrow family!" I turn to look at my boyfriend, Anthony Yarrow, subconsciously, hoping that he'll defend me. But he keeps his head lowered and pretends to not hear anything. His reaction catches me off guard. But soon, my temper starts flaring. It turns out that the Yarrows have already plotted to put me through a trial that tests my submissiveness as soon as I walk through the front door. That's why Joana has been assessing me like I'm their future maid. Since they care about points that much, then I suppose they can kiss the million-dollar wedding gifts, the marital home located in the city center, as well as the businesses under my family goodbye.