My Parents Laughed At My Art Career, Saying I Wasn’t Their Kid. At Their…

The Anniversary Party

Ryan gave the impassioned statement first. Then my turn.

I stood and stated I wanted to address a long-standing issue. The room quieted.

My parents constantly joked about my not being theirs, and I finally knew why—they were correct. They were not my biological parents.

I retrieved photographs. My pre-birth photo showed my mom appearing different.

I pointed out the eye color in my dad’s yearbook photo. I said none of them were artists, although my biological grandma, who died before I was born, was a painter.

I’d been skeptical for years, but their continuous jokes prompted me to investigate. Silence filled the room.

Mom’s face whitened. I continued running while my dad said…

I stated that explained why they never bonded with me, felt distant, and could joke about me not being theirs since they knew. I thanked them for raising me despite not being their daughter.

Since blood matters, I understood why they favored Ryan and didn’t blame them. I thanked them for keeping me despite knowing the truth.

My mother wept. Dad stood and said, “That’s ridiculous.”

Of course, I was their daughter. Aunt Claire tried not to grin.

The Reveal

Very gently, I opened the envelopes. Blank papers were within.

I removed them and let them fall on the floor, white sheets swirling about me. My hands shook as I looked at my parents and spoke the words I’d been holding back.

I made it up. The images were modified.

Fake eye color. False grandmother story. All of it.

All the proof I provided them was fabricated. My mother screamed after two seconds of silence.

Everyone froze at this high-pitched sound. My dad rushed forward, knocking his chair over, and moved toward me with a new expression.

Phones were pulled one after another. It made it worse to see others holding them up and capturing everything.

My mom was screaming and cursing, wondering how I could do this to them and calling me nasty things in public. Guests stood up, some approaching, some retreating toward the exits.

Ryan sat at the head table with his mouth wide and face white. Claire grasped my arm painfully next to me.

She dragged me away from the microphone and toward the side exit. My dad kept coming, pushing past people, and he yelled that I was dead, that I was no longer his daughter, and that he never wanted to see me again.

He pushed past the coordinator who tried to block him. Claire kept tugging me, and I tripped attempting to keep up.

I turned to see Tara get up from her seat and grab Owen and Emma, rushing them to a separate entrance with her hands on their shoulders. Ryan hadn’t moved.

He sat looking at nothing while commotion erupted. Some were shouting questions at me, some were calling my parents, and some were simply filming it on their phones.

The Great Escape

Claire led me into the hallway through the side door. My legs felt strange and detached, like they weren’t mine.

She kept tugging me along in the hallway and parking lot without letting grip of my arm. I noticed I was sweating when chilly air struck my face.

So violently was my body trembling that my teeth chattered. Claire escorted me to my car and asked for my keys.

I took them from my handbag but dropped them twice before I could give them to her. She opened the driver’s side and pulled me toward it.

“Drive to my house. You can’t be alone right now.”

I climbed in and tried to start the car, but my hands were trembling. I began it after three tries.

After Claire went to her car two places over, I sat with the engine running and stared at the steering wheel. Through venue windows, I saw people moving about and the commotion I’d left behind.

Claire pulled beside and indicated for me to follow. I put the car in drive and did as she instructed since I had no other choice.

Claire’s house was 14 minutes distant but seemed like hours. Sweaty hands kept sliding on the driving wheel.

Every time I stopped at a red light, I saw myself in the rearview mirror and looked funny. At her place, I parked awkwardly in the driveway and had to park twice.

She opened my door and helped me like I was sick or injured. Inside her residence, she guided me to the couch, where I sat.

She went into the kitchen and opened cupboards and ran water. I sat gazing at the coffee table, the magazine on it, and a water ring from a glass on the wood.

The Quiet After the Storm

Everything was muted and distant, like I was underwater. Claire returned with two tea mugs and placed one in front of me.

She sat silently in the chair across from me. That made me cry—not silent sobbing, but the ugly sort when you can’t breathe, your nose runs, and you make awful noises.

Claire waited with her mug, letting me fall apart. When I could talk, the words were garbled.

I told her about the 8-year-old restaurant jokes, 12-year-old Thanksgiving announcement, and the time they informed my date I probably wasn’t theirs before prom.

I told her about the award ceremony when they made the joke in front of everyone essential to my career. They always made me feel like a mistake they had to keep.

I told her Ethan left because he couldn’t handle parents who belittled their child. Whenever I attempted to make them proud, they made another joke.

Claire nodded like she’d seen this for years and was waiting for me to see it. My phone buzzed in my handbag.

The humming continued. As soon as I took it out, the screen was filled with notifications, texts, and calls that were too rapid to read.

Ryan’s name appeared repeatedly. My cousin Carla, mom’s sister, Uncle Tom, and partygoers all messaged.

My relatives’ group chat was insane. Messages were too rapid to track.

Opening Ryan’s texts first made me regret it. “What were you thinking? Mom is hysterical. Dad punched a hole in the wall.”

“How could you do this? What is wrong with you?”

My aunt, my mom’s sister, sent me a long mail calling me nasty, selfish, and ungrateful. She stated I embarrassed my parents on their special day and owed them a huge explanation.

More texts came from cousins wondering what happened, some stating they saw videos online, some supporting my parents, others asking for my side. The humming continued.

Another SMS or call came every several seconds. The alerts kept coming until my hands started trembling again, so I shut off the phone.

The abrupt hush weighed. Claire stared at me from her chair, and I stated I couldn’t read anymore.

She nodded and requested more tea. Though I hadn’t touched the first cup, I agreed.

She got up and returned to the kitchen, leaving me to reflect. Venue floor blank sheets were likely still dispersed.

My parents probably remained. Maybe they went home to handle things away from the cameras and onlookers.

Ryan was probably attempting to calm everyone down as usual, being the good child who solved problems. I was on Claire’s couch after blowing up my family in front of 50 phone-wielding witnesses.