Isla POV
The house was quiet, but the silence was heavy, pressing against my chest like a weight I couldn't push away. I moved from the bedroom to the living room, tracing the familiar lines of furniture that suddenly felt foreign. Every cushion, every picture frame, every detail I had once thought of as comforting now seemed sharp, like pieces of a life that had never been mine.
My mind replayed what I had seen, Marcus and my mother together, their calm cruelty, the way they looked at me as though I had no right to feel anything at all. I pressed my palms to my temples, trying to shut the images out, but they clung to me, relentless and accusing.
I couldn't stay. I knew that much with terrifying clarity. Leaving wasn't just a thought; it was a necessity, though every step toward that decision felt like climbing a cliff without a rope. I had spent three years trying to mold myself into the perfect wife, trying to earn a love that wasn't meant to be mine, and now the house that had once seemed like a sanctuary felt like a cage. I sank into the sofa and let my hands cover my face, my tears coming unbidden.
The thought of divorce hovered in my mind, terrifying and liberating at the same time. I had never considered myself strong enough to walk away from security, from wealth, from stability. Yet here I was, realizing that all of it had been an illusion.
I needed to speak with her. The woman who had raised me, who had taught me how to smile when I was lonely, how to cook his favorite meals, how to hold my tongue until it bled. I needed to confront my mother and demand some kind of explanation, though I already suspected the answers would hurt more than they helped.
I didn't want to think about what would happen next, but my body had made the decision before my mind could catch up. I grabbed my coat and walked toward the front door, boots clicking against the hardwood floor, each step a drumbeat of urgency.
When I reached the kitchen, she was there, sipping tea as if nothing had happened. Her calm presence made my chest tighten in anger. I wanted to scream, to hurl every accusation I could form, but I forced myself to sit across from her, keeping my voice steady though it shook inside me. "We need to talk," I said, my words more fragile than I intended.
Her eyes lifted to meet mine, deceptively calm. "About what, Isla?" she asked, as if she didn't already know. I could smell the faint perfume, the same scent that had wrapped around me in the bedroom hours ago, the scent of betrayal.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the table. "About you," I said. "About what I just saw. About Marcus. About everything."
Her expression didn't change. If anything, it hardened. "You always overreact," she said softly, almost mockingly. "You married him for security, and now you're upset because you've discovered how the world actually works."
I couldn't breathe. The words stung, but it wasn't just her comment it was the revelation that followed. "You… you're not my real mother," I said, my voice barely audible. The words felt foreign as I spoke them, like saying them aloud made them more real than I had been prepared to accept.
Her gaze flickered for the first time, a moment of hesitation that was gone before I could grasp it. "I… I thought you knew," she admitted quietly. "I thought your father told you before…" Her voice trailed off, and I realized I didn't even know who she meant. Who had given me up? Who had left me in the care of someone who would betray me like this?
I pressed forward, needing answers even as the reality twisted my stomach into knots. "Why didn't anyone tell me?" I asked. "Why keep it a secret all these years? Why lie to me?" My hands shook as I gestured wildly, the table rattling beneath them.
"Everything I believed, everything I trusted how could you how could you be capable of this?" Her silence was worse than any answer. Her eyes, cold and unwavering, reflected a truth I hadn't been ready for: my life had been a story someone else wrote, and I had only played my part.
The conversation grew heated, voices rising, accusations spilling over like water from a dam. I told her everything the suffocating years, the emptiness in Marcus's eyes, the betrayal I had walked in on. Every word burned like fire in my chest, each one a release of pain I had carried silently.
And then, unexpectedly, another presence entered the room my brother. I didn't notice him at first, not until his shadow fell across the doorway. His eyes were wide, hurt and confusion mirrored in his gaze. I knew him better than anyone, knew how he had struggled silently with school, with life, with expectations he couldn't meet. I hadn't known he was listening, and suddenly the weight of his broken trust pressed against my chest as heavily as my own.
His face was pale, drawn, eyes flicking between me and the woman I had called mother. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, cracked, filled with something I couldn't name anger, disbelief, grief. "So… she's not really my mother either," he whispered. The words shattered something inside me, too, because I realized he had lived years believing in a lie, struggling silently while the foundation beneath him crumbled.
He turned abruptly, his body stiff, walking out without another word, leaving a silence that rang louder than anything in the room. The door slammed behind him, echoing through the house like the final punctuation on a life I no longer recognized.
I sank back into the chair, chest heaving, tears spilling freely now. The room felt impossibly large and empty. The truth of my own adoption, the betrayal of the man I had married, and the fracture in the family I thought I understood had collided inside me, leaving nothing but raw edges. I realized I didn't know how to be any of the things I had thought I was daughter, wife, sister. I didn't know who I was anymore, and yet, strangely, that realization carried a seed of strength.
If my life had been written by others, perhaps it was time I learned to write my own story, to take control of a life that had been shaped by lies, manipulation, and compromise.
The first step was clear, though terrifying. I would leave Marcus. I would leave this house. I would reclaim the pieces of myself that had been scattered, stolen, or denied. And no matter what the future held, I would not be a victim again.
The night was still dark outside the window, but inside me, something shifted fragile, trembling, but alive. A fire had ignited, and though the path ahead was uncertain, I knew one thing with absolute certainty: I would never allow myself to be invisible, used, or silenced again. Whatever came next, I would face it on my own terms.