The Recurring Joke

My parents made fun of me by saying I couldn’t be their kid. They told the server I was adopted when I ordered something else at restaurants.

They joked with other parents at school functions that the hospital must have switched infants because I was nothing like them. My mom would comment, “Our real daughter would have been athletic when I quit soccer for theater.”

My dad would tell his golf pals that my love of reading indicated I wasn’t his since no kid would choose books over athletics. They thought it was hilarious.

After I dyed my hair black at 12, they informed our extended relatives at Thanksgiving that I wasn’t theirs since nobody would make such strange decisions. When I went to art school instead of business school, people scoffed.

The humor changed. They said, “Refunds are now due from the hospital. We undoubtedly have our ideal daughter somewhere.”

It was spoken to my face during supper. They told strangers who praised my works.

They’d tell my guy when I got him home. Later, he abandoned me because my family was too odd and he didn’t want to cope with child-hating parents.

My older brother Ryan didn’t get these jokes. He met their needs well.

He played football, attended state business school, married his high school lover, and had grandchildren immediately. My dad’s wedding speech thanked them for having at least one child.

Everyone laughed except my aunt Claire, who later told me it was cruel.

The National Stage

But my worst moment was winning a national sculpting prize. It was big—prize money, gallery display, everything.

The presenter looked frightened when my mom responded, “We’re still not convinced she’s ours, but if she is, then sure, we’re proud.”

My parents attended the ceremony. Audience members shuffled uneasily.

Dad said, “Yeah, we keep waiting for her real parents to show up and claim her.”

They chuckled like it was usual. I decided they’d play this game then; I’d play better.

Calculating the Retribution

They planned a huge party for their 28th anniversary. I was invited to speak, and I said yes.

I spent weeks planning everything but the speech. Calling my aunt Claire, I requested all prenatal family pictures.

My mom appeared different before and after my birth in photos. My dad’s yearbook showed brown eyes, not the green he said was our family’s.

I got creative with picture editing basics. Not insane, just compelling.

The celebration night arrived. My folks were running their normal show at the head table.

After being congratulated on raising two kids, my mom responded, “Well, one and a half since we’re not sure about that one,” while pointing at me.