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.

212

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.

Chapter 10

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.

They stood in front of one of my photographs-a picture of an old house. It looked a lot like the one I’d lived in back then.

Dad’s fingers brushed lightly over the photo.

I didn’t say anything. Just kept signing prints.

My heart was beating a little faster, but inside, I felt calm. I didn’t hate them anymore. Didn’t love them either.

They just felt… like strangers.

Dad slowly walked over. He held a manila envelope in his hand and held it out to me.

His hand was cold, rough with calluses-years of gripping pens.

“Scarlett, this is… an apology letter. We know you won’t forgive us. But we still wanted to write it.”

I took the envelope. It was thick.

When my fingers brushed his hand, he pulled back quickly-like a child who’d done something wrong.

“We’re leaving now.” Mom looked at me. Her eyes turned red, but she didn’t cry. Her voice just trembled a little.

“Take care of yourself here, okay? When it gets cold, remember to wear a jacket. Don’t catch colds all the time like you did when you were little.”

I nodded. Didn’t say anything.

They slowly walked out. Dad moved carefully, one step at a time, Mom held onto him. They didn’t look back.

The gallery lights were warm. I opened the envelope.

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.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify