When I was adopted, I got a sister named Ava who promised on my first night she’d ruin my life. At first, I thought she was just scared to share her parents. But Ava didn’t see a sister — she saw an intruder. Over the years, she quietly sabotaged me: ruining clothes, spreading rumors, and turning my parents against me whenever I tried to speak up.
Despite the cruelty, I focused on school and dreamed of leaving. Senior year brought the biggest surprise — I earned a full scholarship to my dream college. My parents celebrated, proud of me. Ava’s bitterness surfaced with a cruel jab about scholarships and charity, but I held onto my hope for a fresh start.
Graduation day arrived, filled with excitement and tense silence from Ava. Then, just as I stepped forward to accept my diploma, Ava tripped me. I fell hard in front of the entire gym, my embarrassment and pain sharp. But hidden cameras recorded everything — Ava’s plan, her smirk, and the fall.
The video went viral on the school’s page. Classmates and teachers called out Ava’s bullying. My parents finally saw the truth and apologized publicly. Ava lost awards and scholarships, her reputation tarnished.
That night, I gave a speech: “To every adopted kid who feels invisible, you belong.” Months later, moving into my dorm, I found a note from a teacher: “You didn’t fall, sweetheart. You rose.” And I knew she was right. I did.
