When I was adopted, I gained a sister named Ava who, on my first night, whispered she’d ruin my life. I laughed it off, thinking she was adjusting. But over the next eight years, she proved she meant it — spilling juice on my projects, lying to my parents, and quietly chipping away at every joy I had. To everyone else, she was sweet. To me, she was merciless.

By senior year, I finally had hope. I’d been accepted into my dream college with a full scholarship, and my parents were bursting with pride. Ava’s smile that night didn’t reach her eyes. She muttered, “Congrats. Now you get to be the poor kid on scholarship.” I ignored it, ready to focus on graduation day — my moment to finally shine.

But as I walked toward the stage, Ava tripped me in front of the entire gym, sending me sprawling. Laughter and gasps filled the air, but I stood, shook, and accepted my diploma with trembling hands. What Ava didn’t know was that the school had GoPros filming the ceremony. They caught every second of her whisper, her smirk, and her deliberate move.

The footage spread through the school’s livestream, and suddenly everyone saw the truth. Ava lost her award, her scholarship, and the mask she’d worn for years. At our graduation dinner, my parents finally apologized. I stood tall, giving a speech to every adopted kid who ever felt unwanted: “You already belong.” And in that moment, I realized — I didn’t fall. I rose.