From the outside, my adoption looked like a dream—loving parents, a cozy home, even a golden retriever named Sunny. But behind the smiles was Ava, my adoptive sister, who saw me not as family, but as an invader. We were the same age, shared a room, and even wore the same shoe size. The caseworker called us “twins.” Ava called me a curse.
On my first night, she whispered, “You ruined my life. One day, I’ll ruin yours.” I thought she’d grow out of it. I gave her candy, lent her books. She tore the pages and blamed me. That was just the beginning.
For eight years, Ava mastered quiet cruelty. She sabotaged my clothes, spread lies at school, and mocked my braces. Every time I tried to speak up, she cried and played the victim. My parents believed her. I learned to stay silent.
Then came graduation—my moment. I’d worked hard, earned honors, and was ready to celebrate. But Ava had waited for this day. As I stood on stage, she whispered something that shattered me. Then she pulled a stunt that turned the crowd’s cheers into gasps. My triumph became her revenge.
She didn’t scream or fight. She simply waited, planned, and struck when it would hurt most. That was Ava’s way—not loud, but lethal.
