Adopted to Biological? Keep Your Golden Child Scapegoat Out novel Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Three months after signing the disownment agreement, I packed my bags and left the city.

That place held too many memories-good ones, bad ones. It was time to let them all go.

I moved to a small town down south and rented a place with a balcony.

Outside the balcony stood an old locust tree. In the summer, it bloomed with clusters of white flowers that smelled sweet.

Every morning, I’d wake up and photograph the streets.

In the evenings, I’d sit on the balcony with a book.

Sometimes I’d take freelance photography gigs from out of town. Life was quiet.

Vivian would message me regularly with updates:

“Your parents kicked Sienna out. She stole money to feed her gambling habit and ran up a huge debt. Then she came crawling back to Freddie. Somehow, they still got married-but they’re always at each other’s throats.”

“Freddie messed up at work and got fired. Now he drinks all day and takes it out on Sienna. All she does is cry. They’re both a

total disaster.”

I read the messages and felt… nothing.

Whether their lives were good or bad-it didn’t concern me anymore.

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Sometimes, though, I’d remember the early days. Dad teaching me how to ride a bike. Mom braiding my hair.

Those warm moments flickered through my mind like scenes from an old film; Brief. Then gone.

Two years later, I held my first solo photography exhibition in the small town.

Most of the photos were street scenes:

An old man sitting in a doorway, basking in the sun, a fan in his hand. A kid running through an alley, clutching a candy apple. A couple holding hands under mistletoe, smiling sweetly.

In those photos, there were no traces of the Jones family. No shadows of my old city. Just my life now.

On opening day, a lot of people came.

I was in the corner of the gallery, signing prints, when someone gently tapped my arm.

I looked up-and froze.

It was Mom and Dad.

Mom’s hair had gone mostly white, neatly combed. She wore the same dark red dress from years ago, though it had faded from too many washes.

Dad leaned on a cane. His back was hunched. Deep wrinkles carved into his face. He looked so much older.

Inside were several yellowed sheets of paper. The handwriting was shaky, uneven. Dad’s handwriting. He’d written a lot:

About the year Sienna came back when I was seven, and how panicked they were.

About the year I was twelve, when they sent me away-how he’d sneak over to the old house at night and see me crying into my blanket, and how much it hurt him.

About changing my college application when I was eighteen, and how much he regretted it.

About the past ten years-how they searched for me, how much they missed me.

The last line read:

“Scarlett, your dad is sorry. Your mom is sorry. Be well. Be better than we ever were.”

Tears dripped onto the paper, smudging the ink.

I folded the letter and tucked it into my bag. I walked to the window and watched their figures disappear around the street corner.

The wind was soft, brushing against my face, carrying the scent of the old locust tree.

I knew I wouldn’t forgive them. But I wouldn’t hate them anymore either.

All those years of hurt. All those years of hoping. They were over now.

From now on, I’d be okay. I’d live my own life. Photograph what I loved. Become the person I wanted to be.