Athena
I was the child my parents chose to abandon during the kidnapping.
I was seven that year. My older twin brother and sister, Wyatt and Addison, were ten.
Three kids, one hundred million dollars. The kidnappers only offered one way out—for one of us to come back alive.
When the call came, my dad was in his study, neck-deep in a crisis over an overseas M&A deal.
So my mom took the call.
The call that changed my life lasted less than three minutes.
She was as calm as if she were closing a business deal. "You can't touch the twins. Wyatt is a natural at finance, and Addison is a brilliant conversationalist. They are our family's pride and our future."
"I can give you the ransom, but I want both Wyatt and Addison back home, alive."
The kidnapper laughed, calling her greedy. A hundred million wasn't enough for three lives.
Without a moment's hesitation, my mom said, "The little one... she doesn't have much to offer. Just forget about her for now. We don't have that much in liquid assets."
See? Even that choice was dripping with the shrewd calculation of the mega-rich.
They weren't choosing a child; they were choosing the investment with the highest rate of return.
Later, the police raided the kidnappers' hideout.
In the chaos, a bullet grazed my left knee.
And so, I survived, but I became the Foster family's one piece of damaged goods, unfit for public display, the girl who walked with a limp.
...
My name is Autumn Foster.
My parents must have once hoped that, like my brother and sister, I would become the pride of the Foster family.
But after the kidnapping, my very existence became a living monument to their shameful decision.
And my name became a giant, bitter irony.
There was no light shining on me. I became the Foster family's darkest shadow.
The day I came home, I was met with an eerie silence.
Wyatt and Addison were surrounded by nannies and child psychologists, like two conquering heroes.
They weren't hurt, just a little shaken up.
My parents hugged them, whispering reassurances. "It's okay, sweethearts. It's all over now."
And then there was me. Dragging my cast-covered leg, I was carried out of the car by Collins, our driver. I stood alone in the entryway, an intruder who had shown up at the wrong time.
My mother's eyes finally landed on me, but they only lingered for three seconds before shifting to my leg.
There was no pain in her gaze, only a critical, appraising look, as if she were assessing my remaining value.
"What did the doctor say? Will it scar? Will it affect her walking?"
She was asking Collins, not me.
Collins answered awkwardly, "The doctor said the bullet damaged the tendons and bones. I'm afraid... walking might be a bit difficult for her in the future."
Those two words, "a bit difficult," were like a final verdict, exiling me completely.
My dad sighed, walked over, and gave my head a token pat. His voice was laced with a weary sort of charity. "Autumn has been through a lot, too. Go to your room and get some rest."
After that day, my left leg became a taboo subject in the Foster family.
No one ever brought it up. No one asked if it hurt. No one offered a word of comfort when my face went pale from the ache in my joints on rainy days.
They just silently made sure that in every family photo, I was seated in the front, the long hem of my dress arranged to hide my leg.
Or they'd just take the picture from the waist up.
Gradually, in all the family photos released to the public, the Fosters had only four members: a loving couple and their picture-perfect twins.
I became the hidden one, the piece of damaged goods that couldn't be seen in the light of day.
My brother, Wyatt, inherited my dad's business acumen and emotional intelligence. He was effortlessly charismatic, the undisputed heir to the Foster Corporation.
My sister, Addison, was a perfect copy of my mother's social grace and artistic talent. She studied ballet and piano from a young age and was the brightest jewel of high society.
Their existence was the family's pride and future.
And I was the accident and the burden.
I had a dedicated driver for school, but my parents never came to a single parent-teacher conference.
My grades were average, and they'd just say, "Autumn's health isn't the best. Let's not ask too much of her. As long as she's healthy and happy, that's all that matters."
Translated, those loving words actually meant: "She's a cripple. We don't expect her to amount to anything."
One year, on my birthday, our housekeeper, Linda, made me a bowl of noodles.
Addison walked past the kitchen, pinching her nose, her face twisted in disgust. "Ugh, what's that smell? Linda, didn't I tell you I don't eat onions or cilantro?"
Linda quickly explained, "It's for Ms. Autumn."
A look of realization dawned on Addison's face, followed by a breezy little laugh. "Oh, right. I forgot it was your birthday today."
Her eyes swept over my leg with disdain.
"Seriously, you have the nerve to celebrate your birthday? Do you have any idea how many times people have secretly laughed at Mom and Dad for having you? What right do you have to a birthday?"
"You know, you should have just died back then with the kidnappers. It would have made things easier for Mom and Dad."
With that, she turned and sauntered away.
I was left alone, staring at the steaming bowl of noodles, unable to take a single bite.
My hand, holding the fork, froze.
My face flushed hot, and I bit down hard on my lip.
To the Fosters, a disabled daughter was a permanent stain on their reputation.
In their eyes, I should just be grateful to be alive and not dare to ask for anything more.
But I have my own bright spots, too.