A Belated Sunny Day

I had known from a young age that I wasn't the Blackwood family's biological daughter. So I knew that I wasn't worthy of being compared with Claire Blackwood in any way. I had only gotten her doll dirty while cleaning the room, yet Mom punished me by locking me out in the rain all night. When Claire blinded one of my eyes with a laser pointer, however, Mom protected her instead. “Your sister didn't mean to do it. She was just playing around.” After I lost sight in my right eye, Claire showed me a triumphant smile. “Who told you to enter our lives in the first place? You deserve it.” They all said I was an outsider. So for eighteen years, no matter how hard I tried or how desperately I pleased them, I could never fit into this family. Until one day, by a twist of fate, I learned an outrageous truth. The DNA test clearly stated that I was my mother's biological daughter, while my younger sister was the adopted one. At that moment, it felt as though I had stopped breathing. Chapter 1 At the dinner table, Mom picked up the last piece of spare rib and put it in Claire Blackwood’s bowl. The fork I had reached out stopped midair. After a pause, I carefully took some greens instead. “Mom, I want to sign up for a math competition prep class.” Without even looking up, Mom said, “Claire’s grades dropped on her recent exam. Help her catch up with her studies this weekend.” “But I need to study too,” I said. “Your grades are good. What’s the big deal about helping her?” She put down her cutlery and looked at me. “Sophia Blackwood, I didn’t raise you all these years to have you refuse something this simple.” Claire gnawed on her spare rib and mumbled, “Mom, I want to enter the public speaking competition. The city-level one.” “Go ahead.” Mom agreed immediately. “How much is the registration fee?” “Six hundred.” “I’ll transfer the money to you tomorrow.” Last month, my homeroom teacher had recommended me for the state-level mathematics competition. The registration fee was three hundred. I had stood at the kitchen doorway for a long time before finally working up the courage to ask. Wiping down the coffee table without looking up, Mom had said, “You might not even win a prize after all that preparation. Where are we supposed to get that kind of money?” Later, my homeroom teacher asked me twice, and I told her I didn’t want to go. “I’m full.” Claire pushed her plate aside, leaving nearly half a plate of food untouched. Mom reached over to feel her forehead. “Why did you eat so little? Are you feeling unwell?” “I had some snacks this afternoon.” “You still need to finish your dinner. You’re growing.” Mom took her plate away, and served her half a bowl of soup. “Here, drink your soup.” I looked at the large amount of food on my plate. Bitterness caught in my throat. It took a moment to force down the green vegetable I’d picked up earlier. Three days ago, the main administrative affairs office had asked me to help organize student records. The door was ajar. Before I could push it open, I heard two teachers talking inside. “Claire from Class Three had her blood type recorded as B during her last physical.” “B? That can’t be right. Her mother listed her emergency contact information at the parent-teacher conference, and her blood type was O. Her father’s is O too.” “Can two people with type O blood have a child with type B?” There was a brief silence. Then came the sound of files being flipped through. “Could she be the one the Blackwoods adopted? I remember the family adopted another girl named Sophia Blackwood.” “Then that makes even less sense.” I stood outside with my hand on the doorknob, but I didn’t push it open. Type O. Two people with type O. I ran through the blood-type inheritance chart we had learned in biology class. Two people with type O blood couldn’t have a child with type B. It was impossible. I crouched down right there and went over those words again and again. My head was buzzing. Could Claire not be Mom and Dad’s biological daughter either? Then who was? That thought had been stuck in my head for three days, circling endlessly. After dinner, Mom said, “Go wash the dishes. Claire wants to watch some TV.” I stayed where I was, still thinking about those records. “Hurry up.” Mom urged me again. I turned and went into the kitchen. I turned the faucet on full blast, water spraying off the plates and soaking my clothes. I lowered my head and looked at my hands. The second knuckle of the ring finger on my left hand curved slightly, exactly like Mom’s. My nose was straight and narrow, just like Dad’s. There was a dimple on the left side of my face, just like Mom’s. I had known since I was six that I was adopted. So whenever I noticed these supposed similarities, I always told myself they were just coincidences. But three years ago, something happened. A relative came to visit. When she saw me, she said to Mom, “This girl has such beautiful eyes. She really does look a little like you—so dark and bright.” Mom barely reacted. She waved her hand dismissively. “She’s not even my biological daughter. How could she look like me?” During their small talk, the relative praised me several times, saying I was sensible, filial, and good at doing so many chores. Claire heard every word. After the guest left, Claire took the new laser pointer she had just bought and shone it around the living room. I was crouched on the floor, clearing the fruit platter on the coffee table, when she told me to look up. The moment I did, that red beam shot straight into my right eye. A searing pain tore through me. That was when I lost the sight in my right eye. Chapter 2 I covered my right eye and collapsed onto the floor, hearing Claire laughing. “Why must you have such pretty eyes?” By the time we got to the hospital, it was already too late. Claire threw herself into Mom’s arms, crying and insisting she hadn’t meant to do it, that she was only playing around and never realized how much harm it would cause. Mom held her close, patting her back. “It’s okay, darling. I know you didn’t mean it.” Then she turned to me and said, “Claire didn’t do it on purpose. Don’t blame her.” I lay on the hospital bed, my right eye covered with gauze, staring at Mom. “Mom, my eye…” “The doctor said there’s no way to save it. You’ll be fine using your left eye from now on.” After saying that, she lowered her head and continued comforting Claire, wiping away her tears with a tissue. I was fifteen that year. Holding back my tears, I accepted the fact that Mom didn’t love me. I got used to seeing with only one eye. I got used to the darkness that filled the space where my right eye should have been. Sometimes I would walk into a doorframe on my right. Sometimes I would spill water while pouring it. If I read for too long, my left eye would ache until tears came. No one ever noticed. One day, Claire walked past me. “Does your eye still hurt today?” I froze for a moment. It had been a long time since she had asked about my eye. “No, it doesn’t,” I said. She nodded and took another step forward before turning back. “That’s good. It wouldn’t matter even if it did hurt, anyway. Right?” She blinked, the corners of her lips curling into a triumphant smile. After washing the dishes, I walked into the living room. Mom was brushing Claire’s hair, chatting as she did. “Our darling Claire has such beautiful hair. Just like mine.” Claire whined, “Mom, gentler,” and Mom laughed, immediately softening her touch. My hair was long too, but Mom had never brushed it for me. When I was little, whenever my hair grew long, she would take me to have it cut and sold. The money then went toward buying pretty dresses for Claire. I stood there with my choppy, uneven hair, watching her braid Claire’s hair, like a rat living in a gutter, looking up at the light. The moment it saw sunlight, it would be burned. Claire was that sunlight. Whenever I saw her long hair, my eyes would sting. I walked past them without either of them noticing me. Back in my room, I closed the door. The desk lamp shone on the paper as I prepared to start my homework. From the living room came Mom’s voice. “Claire, your birthday is next week. I ordered you a big cake. How many classmates do you want to invite over?” Claire’s birthday was also mine. We had been brought home on the same day, but I had never celebrated my birthday. When I was little, there was one year when I asked Mom why Claire got a cake while I didn’t. She said, “Claire is our biological daughter. You’re not. You need to learn to mind your place.” I was six that year. From that day on, I understood everything. Claire had been kidnapped by human traffickers, and I had been found alongside her. The two babies were less than a month old and looked nearly identical. After the DNA test, Mom and Dad took their biological daughter home. Perhaps they felt that I was somehow meant to be part of their family, and brought me along as well, raising me alongside her as their adopted eldest daughter. I finished the practice exam, turned off the desk lamp, and sat in the darkness for a while. Then I remembered the conversation between the two teachers. Two people with type O blood absolutely could not have a child with type B blood. Then, was it possible that the test all those years ago had been wrong? I took a deep breath. The possibility struck me as utterly absurd. I closed my eyes, not daring to let the thought go any further. Part of me was even afraid of the hypothetical outcome. Chapter 3 The next morning, Mom brought two bowls of ravioli in brodo to the table. Claire’s ravioli was garnished with fragrant herbs, with a faintly milky broth made from bone stock. Mine was nothing but clear broth, and some of the ravioli were still undercooked. “Mom, why are Claire’s and Sophia’s ravioli different?” Claire stirred the ravioli in her bowl with her spoon, asking as though she didn’t already know the answer. “You’re still growing. You need more nourishment. Bone broth gives you calcium.” Mom pushed a small dish of grated parmesan toward her. “Eat more.” “But isn’t Sophia still growing too?” Mom glanced at me. There was something unreadable in her eyes, but her expression was cold. “She doesn’t need it.” I lowered my head and ate my ravioli. The half-cooked wrappers were tough as I chewed. The bitterness in my heart was about to spill from my throat. “Mom, I need to go to the mall this afternoon to buy a dress for my public speaking competition,” Claire said. “Will you come with me?” “Sure. I could do some window shopping too.” “I want to go too,” I said. Mom turned to me, her brows knitting together again. “What are you going for? Claire’s buying a dress for her competition. Why do you need to tag along?” “I… I want to buy a pair of shoes.” The sneakers on my feet were nearly two years old. The soles were so worn down I could see my socks through them. “Aren’t those shoes still wearable?” “The soles are almost completely worn through…” “Then have Claire give you a pair she doesn’t wear. She has so many shoes, and plenty of them are practically new.” Claire laughed. “Take the white pair in the shoe cabinet. I don't like them anyway.” I said nothing more. Last month, I had a fever of 102.2°F for three days. Mom said some fever medicine would be enough for me. When I told her I felt dizzy, she said I was being too delicate. When Claire sneezed twice, however, Mom instantly panicked and insisted on taking her to the hospital for a checkup. Before leaving, she even told me, “It’s all because of you. You passed it to Claire.” I clenched my fists, tears welling up in my eyes. Later, I went to the community clinic by myself and got two IV drips. The nurse scolded me. “What were you thinking, little one? If you'd come any later, your life could've been in danger!” I lowered my head and muttered to myself. “It’s okay. “Mom was the one who picked up my life in the first place. “Even if I lost it, no one would be sad for me anyway, would they?” My train of thought came to a sudden halt when I remembered that conversation. Almost on impulse, I walked into the bathroom. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I saw a face that resembled nearly eighty percent of Mom and Dad. And suddenly, I made a decision. I saved the strands of hair Mom had brushed from her head that morning. I opened the map on my phone and searched for “DNA testing.” The nearest one was across from the city hospital, a half-hour bus ride away. When the bus arrived, I boarded and took a window seat. By the time I got off, my palms were drenched in sweat. The testing center was on the fourth floor of an old office building. When the elevator doors opened, I was facing a glass door with the words [Genetic Testing Laboratory]. The receptionist greeted me and placed the hair in a sealed bag. “Come back in five working days to collect the results.” By the time I returned to the neighborhood, it was nearly dark. “Where were you? You’re back so late.” “I went out for a walk.” The dining table was a mess, with nothing left but cold leftovers. “Go make yourself some instant noodles. That’s what you get for coming home so late.” Mom looked up and glanced at me. “Oh, right. Claire is taking part in the city’s public speaking competition next week. Could you go over her speech one more time? Your writing is pretty good, isn’t it? At least you can make yourself useful.” I nodded noncommittally. I walked into my room on an empty stomach and sat down at my desk. The light from the computer screen shone on my face as I edited her speech. The title was [The Person I Love Most.] Claire had written about Mom. I revised the opening and added a detail of when she was little and fell ill, her mother stayed up all night by her bedside. I made that detail up, because I had never seen it happen. My right eye began to ache again. I rubbed it and continued editing. Five working days. Today was Saturday. The results would be ready next Friday. From the living room, Claire called out, “Mom, I want some yogurt.” “There’s some in the fridge. Have Sophia get it for you.” “Sophia! Yogurt!” I walked out of my room and took the yogurt from the fridge. When I handed it to Claire, she took it and glanced at me. “Why are your eyes red?” “They’re not.” “Don’t cry in front of me. It’s annoying to look at.” I wasn't crying. I was just wondering what that piece of paper next Friday would tell me. Chapter 4 After I was done editing Claire’s speech, I was washing dishes in the kitchen. Mom happened to be on the phone in the living room, and her voice carried clearly across the room. “An adopted child is an adopted child, after all. I just can’t force a bond that isn’t there.” I stopped moving. She had the call on speaker, so I heard the person on the other end ask, “You’ve raised her for eighteen years. Surely you must have developed some attachment to her by now?” “How could I? Claire is the apple of my eye.” Mom leaned back against the sofa with a laugh. “Who knows what kind of people that child came from? I’m telling you, she’s got a lot of thoughts in her head. She’s just like those parents of hers, whoever they are.” I wiped my hands on my apron and walked into the living room. “Mom.” She glanced at me, told the person on the phone to hold on, then covered the microphone. “What is it?” “What if I’m actually your biological daughter?” “What are you rambling about now?” I mustered up the courage to speak. “I mean… what if… what if the original DNA test was wrong?” “Sophia Blackwood.” She hung up the phone and sat upright. “You said this once when you were little. And that was enough. Now that you’re eighteen, you’re still bringing this up. You do this every few days. Aren’t you tired of it? Do you think saying this will somehow make you my real daughter? “Let me make one thing clear. You don’t deserve it. No matter how good your grades are, you don’t deserve it. You can try as hard as you want to please me, and you still don’t deserve it. You are not my daughter. Do you understand?” I stood there frozen. “Remember this. I have only one daughter in this life, and that’s Claire. You are not my daughter, and you never will be.” She was right. When I was little, I was always upset. I would cling to Mom and ask her if there had been a mix-up, if I was actually her biological daughter. After all, I looked so much like her. We had the same dimples. I looked just like Dad too. We both even liked cilantro. Maybe that was simply genetics. Claire, on the other hand, could barely stand the smell of cilantro. I grabbed Mom’s hand and asked, “Mom, could I be your biological daughter too?” She then shoved me away without warning, and my forehead hit the coffee table. Blood ran down my face. She didn’t even panic. She simply said, “Ungrateful brat. You actually think you can replace my daughter?” The wound left a permanent scar on my forehead. She pointed at it and said, “You were ugly enough already. Now you’re even uglier with that scar. My darling Claire is still the pretty one.” In the living room, she looked at me with nothing but disgust. I swallowed my tears, pressed my lips together, and went to my room. That night, I had a dream. In my dream, I had never been lost, and the DNA test had never been wrong. Mom held me in her arms and called me Sophia in that soft, gentle voice of hers. I could see with both eyes, and I saw her smiling face. The scene was so vivid, so real, and it felt as though it had actually happened. Then I woke up. There was a small damp patch on my pillow. I didn't know whether it had come from my left eye or my right. Those five days of waiting were agonizing. Every day felt like an eternity. On Monday at noon, one of Claire’s friends came over to visit. She pointed at me and asked, “Is that your sister? What happened to her eye?” Claire casually replied, “There’s something wrong with her eye. Don’t stare.” Mom came out carrying a plate of fruit. Hearing that, she said, “She did it to herself. Her right eye is already blind. Don’t bother with her.” I forced myself to smile and nodded. On Tuesday evening, Dad returned from his business trip with a pile of gifts for Claire. A new tablet, a limited-edition collectible, and a beautiful princess dress. I stood in the corner, watching their happy little family scene. My eyes grew red, and my nose began to sting. Afraid they would notice how miserable I looked, I quickly lowered my head. Mom glanced at me. “What are you standing around for? Go clean Claire’s room, then wash her clothes.” I ran back to my room, tears streaming down my face. Wednesday was Claire’s birthday. The house was packed with guests and filled with laughter. Gifts were piled all over the living room. Mom carried out a three-tiered cake decorated with cream frosting. Written across it in chocolate sauce was [Happy Birthday to Our Little Princess, Claire.] Claire’s classmates gathered around her and sang the Happy Birthday song. Mom held up her phone to record the whole thing, smiling so brightly that little lines appeared at the corners of her eyes. I stood at the kitchen doorway, dishwater still dripping from my hands. No one called for me. It was my birthday too. No one mentioned it. Thursday morning, Claire went to the public speaking competition. I was the one who edited her speech. Or rather, I wrote it. I had originally only been asked to revise her draft, but she abandoned it altogether and had me write a new one for her. I had worked on it until two in the morning the night before. Mom sat in the front row, recording the entire thing on her phone. The glow from the screen lit up her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she was smiling. When the competition ended, Claire won first prize. Mom sent her photo to all the family group chats. In the picture, Claire held up her trophy, her eyes curved into a bright smile. Mom captioned it, [My little princess is amazing.] The family chats filled with praise and congratulations. My name, however, had never appeared in any of them. Then Friday finally came. I stood outside the DNA testing lab, staring through the glass door, my palms slick with sweat. The receptionist handed me a brown envelope. I pulled out the two sheets of paper and flipped to the final line. “The submitted samples A and B are confirmed to have a biological mother-daughter relationship. Probability of maternity: 99.9999%.”