At nine, being adopted felt like a dream come true—loving parents, a cozy home, and even a dog named Sunny. But I quickly learned I wasn’t joining just a family—I was stepping into someone else’s life. Ava, my new sister and classmate, resented me from day one. That first night, she whispered, “You ruined my life. I’ll ruin yours,” and kept that promise through years of subtle, cruel sabotage.

Ava’s torment was quiet but constant—destroyed projects, lies to friends, manipulative tears. My parents never saw it. I stopped trying to make them understand and focused instead on escaping. Against all odds, I earned a full-ride scholarship to my dream university. While my parents celebrated, Ava stood back, smiling with something bitter behind her eyes. I thought I was finally free, but she wasn’t done.

At graduation, she tripped me on stage in front of everyone. I fell hard, humiliated—but what she didn’t know was that the school had installed cameras. The video, shared online, showed everything. The internet noticed what my parents hadn’t for eight years. Her awards were revoked, her scholarship offer rescinded, and my parents, at last, apologized.

That fall, I left for college with a fresh start. In my dorm, I found a small gift from a teacher: snacks, lavender spray, and a note that read, “You didn’t fall. You got up.” For the first time, I knew I wasn’t just surviving—I was rising. And this time, it was my story.