“She’s not mine?!” My so-called father’s voice thundered through the room as he slammed the DNA test onto the table. Fourteen years of lies shattered in a single moment. Mom collapsed into tears, whispering, “I had no choice.” But I was frozen—staring at the proof: zero percent paternal match.

He left that day, taking only my sister Alexa, his real child. Mom’s hatred for me sharpened like a knife. “If you didn’t look so much like him, he’d have stayed,” she hissed. Meanwhile, Kira, also not his, became Mom’s favorite because she “looked like me.” At sixteen, I was paying rent and buying my own food. The day I turned eighteen, I escaped.

Years later, I blackmailed Mom for my real father’s address. “Rick doesn’t want you,” she spat. But when I knocked on his door, he paled like he’d seen a ghost. “You’re my daughter,” he whispered. “I’ve been looking for you. Your mother told me you hated me.” He’d paid child support all along and kept a photo of my baby shoes.

Then came the twist: Rick gifted me a house to make up for lost time. But Mom and Kira broke in, claiming it as theirs—smug and sure. When I threatened to call the police, they fled, and Kira screamed, “You ruin everything!” I locked the door behind me, finally free. Finally home.