When I was seven, I came down with a high fever. For the first time, my father took me to a local clinic.

In front of the nurses, I recited the phone number my mother had made me memorize a thousand times.

The next day, an endless line of cars snaked into the mountains.

Men cut the iron chains from my mother's ankles with chainsaws and broke my father's limbs.

Stunned, I watched as my mother walked past me and threw herself into the arms of the man leading them.

As everyone prepared to leave, I was left behind.

Timidly, I called out, "Mommy..."

But she kicked me hard to the ground. "Don't call me that! The sight of you disgusts me. I wish you were dead!"

I froze where I lay. She had promised to reward me if I recited that number...

The man in charge steadied my agitated mother.

Throughout it all, his gaze never left her, as if I were invisible.

"Calm down, Gillian," he told her. "Let's go home."

Just then, a little boy in a neat, tailored suit stepped out of one of the cars.

He ran to my mother and wrapped his arms around her leg, staring at me warily.

It was as though I were a monster.

The leading man gestured, and two men in black moved toward me.

They reached for my arms.

My mother suddenly screamed hysterically, "Don't touch her! Her blood is tainted!"

The two men halted.

Then, one of them produced a heavy iron cage from nowhere, a cage used for confining animals.

It still had a pet food bowl hanging from it, reeking of decay.

They opened the cage door, grabbed me roughly, and shoved me inside.

Pointing at me, the boy asked, "Daddy, is this monster coming home with us?"

The cage door clanged shut in my face.

Treated like an animal, I was thrown into the trunk of a jeep.

As the convoy bumped along the rugged mountain road, my head kept hitting the metal bars.

The wound on my forehead split open. Blood and sweat stung my eyes, burning with pain.

My stomach churned, and I vomited violently.

Halfway there, the convoy stopped for a break.

The driver opened the trunk and saw me in the cage.

Perhaps out of pity, he unscrewed a bottle of water and reached to hand it to me.

"Here, little girl, have some water."

But a hand stopped him.

It was the man named Oliver Cantrell.

He shot the driver a cold glare. "Mind your own business."

The driver immediately withdrew his hand, not daring to say another word.

As the trunk slammed shut, the last sliver of light vanished.

After what felt like an eternity, the car finally stopped.

The cage was dragged out and slammed heavily onto the ground.

Before me stood a house I had never seen before—grand and magnificent, like a palace.

That little boy, Jerome Cantrell, proudly held my mother's hand.

"Mommy, welcome home! Daddy and I cleaned your room—you won't find a speck of dust!"

He glanced back at me, his voice dripping with pride.

"No more traces of bad people!"

Everyone crowded around my mother and entered the brightly lit villa.

The large door slowly closed in front of me.

Locked in the cold iron cage, I was forgotten in the yard.

The night grew deeper and colder.

Near dawn, a man in a housekeeper's uniform unlocked the cage.

He dragged me out and pointed toward a dark, damp toolshed beside the villa.

"You'll live here from now on."

The thick, pungent smell of mold washed over me. I saw spiderwebs clinging to the corners, swaying gently.

Then he pointed at the tightly shut main door of the villa.

"You're not allowed to step inside without permission. Understand?"

I nodded.

Inside the toolshed, there was only a cold metal cot with a thin layer of straw spread over the plank.

There wasn't even a blanket.

Through the dusty window, I could see the brightly lit living room of the main villa.

Jerome was sitting in front of a large, black, triangular object that seemed to glow.

His fingers danced across it, and beautiful sounds I had never heard before filled the air.

That was a piano, as I later came to know.

My mother and that man, Oliver, sat on the sofa, watching him with gentle eyes.

Oliver cut a piece of fruit and fed it to her.

The smile on my mother's face was something I had never seen back in the mountains.

My stomach growled loudly, aching with hunger.

I remembered how, back in the mountains, when Mommy was occasionally in a good mood, she would sometimes hum a lullaby to coax me to sleep.

Without thinking, I began to hum it softly.

Immediately, the piano music stopped.

My mother clutched her head with both hands and let out a piercing scream.

"Make it stop! It's that monster's voice! Stop it!"

The living room door swung open.

Jerome stormed out, shoved me hard to the ground, his face twisted with anger.

The sheet music in his hand fell near my feet.

"It's all your fault! You're hurting Mommy again!"

He saw me as the enemy who had destroyed his perfect family.

From that day on, I never dared to hum that lullaby again.

Late that night, I was so starving that I sneaked into the main villa's kitchen.

Next to the trash bin was a beautiful piece of cake with yellow flesh on top.

It was probably made for Jerome, but discarded because he didn't like it.

I grabbed the cake and stuffed it into my mouth.

It was the first time I had ever tasted something so sweet.

What I didn't know was that the yellow fruit was called mango—and I was severely allergic to it.

Not long after I returned to the toolshed, bright red rashes broke out all over my body, itching unbearably.

I scratched desperately, and soon, my skin tore.

Then my throat began to tighten, as if gripped by an invisible hand.

I couldn't breathe, my face turning purple.

Gasping like a fish out of water, I struggled on the metal cot, unable to make a sound.

Just as I thought I was going to die, the toolshed door opened.

The family doctor had been summoned.

Standing by the door, Oliver frowned and asked indifferently, "Will she die?"

The doctor glanced at my suffering and replied, his tone somewhat urgent.

"It's acute laryngeal edema. Any later and it would've been dangerous."

Oliver nodded.

"Cure her," he ordered, his tone still detached.

The doctor gave me an injection. The needle stung sharply, followed by the cold flow of medicine entering my body.

Once he was sure my life wasn't in danger, Oliver turned and left without a backward glance.

I lay in bed, my body burning up. Soon, I drifted into unconsciousness.

In my delirium, I felt as if I were back in that small clinic.

Over and over, I muttered, "Mommy, I've memorized it...

"I'll be rewarded."

The next day, I regained consciousness.

The housekeeper informed me that my mother had known about my mango allergy and had called the doctor.

I didn't understand how she knew.

When I saw her, her gaze was complex—filled with emotions I couldn't decipher.

At noon, she instructed the kitchen to prepare mango pudding.

As I was heading to the main villa for cleaning duty, Jerome "happened" to pass by and "accidentally" dropped a plate of pudding at my feet.

The yellow pudding splattered across the floor, its sweet scent saturating the air.

It stirred in me both longing and fear.

My mother stood not far away, watching me coldly.

"Eat it."

Her voice held no warmth.

"Eat it, and I'll consider letting you stay."

I was so hungry I felt the urge to drop to the floor and devour it.

But the memory of last night's suffocation returned vividly, and I trembled uncontrollably.

Desperately, I shook my head.

To her, my refusal was an act of rebellion.

She lost control, picking up another plate and smashing it hard into my face.

The sticky pudding covered my eyes and nose, making it hard for me to breathe.

But I didn't cry or move. I just stood there silently.

My silence seemed to infuriate her even more.

"You're as ungrateful as your father!"

Before I could wipe the mess from my face, someone grabbed me roughly.

It was Oliver.

He dragged me to a secluded corner, pressed me against the wall, and gripped my neck.

The cold metal of his cufflink dug into my cheek.

Lifted off the ground, I struggled to breathe, my face flushing.

"I'm warning you. Stay away from her."

His voice was low, filled with threat.

"Give her whatever she wants. Your life, even."

As he released me, I slumped to the floor, gasping.

He looked down at me with contempt.

"Or I'll send you back to your father—the cripple he is now."

That afternoon, Jerome lost his piano competition.

He took his anger out on me, cornering me at the second-floor staircase landing, calling me a "jinx".

"It's all because of you! You monster! After you came back, we've become so unlucky!"

Then, with all his strength, he pushed me.

I tumbled down the stairs.

My head struck the hard wooden railing, my body rolling uncontrollably until I landed on the cold floor of the first level.

A sharp pain seared through my arm, and the bone was twisted at an unnatural angle.

The pain was so intense I couldn't make a sound.

My mother and Oliver heard the noise and rushed out of their room.

They stood on the second-floor landing.

Upstairs was Jerome, crying in fear.

Downstairs was me, lying broken and moaning.

My mother's expression went blank for a moment as she glanced at me. Then, without hesitation, she turned, ran upstairs, and wrapped Jerome tightly in her arms.

"Don't be afraid, Jerry. I'm here. It's not your fault."

Oliver didn't even glance my way. He pulled out his phone, ready to call someone to deal with me.

"Enough!"

An aged but firm voice cut through the tension.

An elderly man with a walking stick walked out of the study.

At the sight of him, Oliver immediately put away his phone, his face shifting to one of respect.

The old man's eyes swept over my mother and Jerome upstairs, then rested on me, crumpled on the floor. His face became livid.

He struck the floor hard with his cane and barked sternly, "What are you waiting for?

"Get her to the hospital—now!"

At the hospital, my arm was encased in a thick cast.

Humbert Cantrell sat by my bedside, studying me with a seriousness I had never seen before.

He asked me about my life in the mountains.

"Did he hit you?"

I shook my head.

"Did she give you food?"

I nodded.

After a long silence, he asked me another question.

"Did she ever hug you?"

I lowered my head and stared at the tips of my shoes, unable to speak.

Something complex flickered in his eyes—something I couldn't understand.

After we returned home, perhaps too agitated, Humbert suffered a heart attack.

He was rushed into surgery and urgently needed a blood transfusion.

The doctor strode out of the operating room, sweating.

"The patient has Rh-negative type O blood. The blood bank is running low. Who's the family member? Go for a test!"

Jerome and Oliver were tested immediately.

But neither was a match.

There wasn't a single matching unit in the entire city's blood banks, and the surgery couldn't proceed.

The entire Cantrell family was desperate.

I stood by the operating room door, watching their anxious faces, when I suddenly remembered something.

At the small clinic, after drawing my blood, the nurse had looked at me strangely.

She had said my blood was special.

Timidly, I approached the housekeeper who had been assigned to watch me and tugged at his sleeve.

"Maybe ... I'm a match."

The housekeeper immediately informed Oliver.

My mother overheard and let out a cold sneer.

"Having the blood of a bastard will taint the Cantrell family," she said.

Her eyes were filled with mockery.

"Stop trying to use such cheap tricks to cling to us."

Just then, the operating room door opened. A nurse said the patient was still conscious and was confirming his consent for the transfusion.

Soon, she came out again.

Humbert, with his last bit of strength, made a decision with difficulty.

He insisted on using my blood.

The cold needle pierced my slender arm.

The nurse didn't speak to me, moving quickly as if I were merely a bag of blood.

I watched as my blood flowed through the tube into another body.

After the transfusion, I was left alone in the observation room, dizzy and disoriented, the world spinning around me.

The surgery was successful. Humbert was out of danger.

But because I was too young and had given too much blood at once, I lay in another hospital bed, my face ghastly pale.

No one came to see me.

Through the glass, Oliver glanced at me briefly before turning to the housekeeper.

"Give her a sum of money and arrange for her to attend the best boarding school. Send her away next week."

The Cantrell family was discarding me for good.

Humbert woke three days later.

The first thing he insisted on was a paternity test.

He said to Oliver, "I can't stop thinking how her eyes resemble yours when you were a boy."

A week later, I was shoved into a black sedan, about to be sent away permanently.

The housekeeper handed me a bag.

"Your things are packed. Someone will pick you up when you arrive."

I watched the villa shrink in the rearview mirror, my mind numb and hollow.

Just then, another car sped up frantically, intercepting ours.

The housekeeper ran toward our car, clutching a document, nearly stumbling several times. He handed it to Oliver through the window.

It was an urgent DNA test report.

In the final column, the conclusion was clear.

I was not related by blood to the human trafficker.

My paternal chromosomes were a perfect match with Oliver's.

I was his biological daughter.