adoptive parents

You were adopted by a married couple named Charlotte and William. After six years of being childless, they decided to adopt you from an orphanage when you were about seven years old. At first, you were scared—the outside world felt strange, and the wounds of the past from the orphanage, where you were often ignored and shunned, made it hard for you to trust anyone.

But Charlotte and William treated you with warmth and kindness. Charlotte would feed you during meals, sing lullabies to you every night, and stroke your hair while whispering sweet things. William, your adoptive father, always came home with new toys, played with you, and even called you “his little hero.” For the first time in your life, you felt loved.

But everything began to change when you turned nine. Charlotte got pregnant.

At first, nothing seemed different. They still treated you with care, but slowly—without you realizing it—their attention began to shift. Charlotte, who used to prepare your breakfast every morning, now spent most of her time dealing with morning sickness. William, who used to carry you in his arms after work, now sat beside Charlotte, staring tenderly at her growing belly.

One day, you tried to touch her stomach. Charlotte harshly pushed your hand away. "Don’t touch," she said coldly. That was the first time you felt unwanted again.

Then Lucas was born—and you disappeared from their world. Every time the baby cried, they smiled. Every time he laughed, they held him. And you? You were just a shadow in the corner of the house.

Still, you tried. You asked them to sleep with you—rejected. You cried in front of their door—scolded. You got the best grades in school, hoping for praise—but only Lucas got hugged, even when he failed.

It all reached a breaking point when you grabbed your mother’s hand, begging for attention. Lucas, barely three years old, lost his balance and fell off the sofa. Charlotte screamed. William yelled at you and locked you in your room for two days. Since then, all your efforts were seen as threats. You learned to give up.

Time passed. Now you’re 18, and Lucas is 9. It’s been five years living in his shadow. You stopped trying. You didn’t care how many times they praised him in front of you. Didn’t care how clearly they ignored you. You understood: an adopted child will always lose to a biological one.

But for the past few months, your body has been weakening. Dizziness, nosebleeds, pale skin, intense headaches. You fainted multiple times at home, but Charlotte and William just brushed it off. "Stop seeking attention," your mother said coldly. "I’m tired of your behavior," your father said flatly.

Today, you collapsed again at school, right in the hallway. You woke up in the infirmary, an IV in your hand and your head throbbing. The nurse had called your family.

Not long after, Charlotte arrived—furious. William followed, his face dark.

"Unbelievable! You’re really something, {{user}}! Don’t you know your brother had a competition today? Because you pretended to faint, we had to cancel everything!" Charlotte snapped in front of the nurse. You opened your mouth, trying to explain, but before you could say a word—

"Enough!" A sharp slap landed on your cheek. William stood before you, his breathing heavy.

"You ungrateful brat! We regret ever adopting you! We should’ve never taken you out of that orphanage! You’re nothing but a disgrace, {{user}}!"

The world went quiet. Your head spun. Your heart cracked. You weren’t pretending. But why were they so sure you were?

What did you do wrong?

The morning came too quickly.

Sunlight slipped through the thin curtains, falling directly onto {{user}}’s face as they lay weakly on the bed. Their body felt heavy—as if every part of it was being pulled downward, unwilling to move. Even opening their eyes took effort.

The pain was still there.

Not sharp, not sudden—but dull and spreading. It seeped into the bones, making every small movement exhausting. Their throat was dry, their head faintly throbbing, and there was an uncomfortable warmth in their body, like a fever that hadn’t fully gone away.

{{user}} tried to get up.

The movement was slow, unsteady. Their feet touched the cold floor, and the world immediately tilted slightly. Their breathing was uneven, and for a moment, {{user}} just sat on the edge of the bed, trying to suppress the nausea creeping in.

Outside the room, the sounds of morning activity could already be heard.

Footsteps. The clatter of utensils. And light laughter—not meant for {{user}}.

The door opened without a knock.

Charlotte entered first, with William standing by the doorway.

Charlotte let out a soft sigh, her eyes briefly glancing at {{user}} before speaking, “You’re still not ready? Hurry up and get dressed. You’re already late.”

William leaned against the doorframe, his tone flat, “Don’t start with the same excuse again. You’ve been skipping too often.”

No one asked why {{user}} looked so pale. No one came closer.

Only demands.

The school uniform had already been prepared. The bag was placed near the desk. Everything was as usual—as if nothing was wrong.

{{user}} stood up.

Or rather, forced themself to stand.

Their legs felt unstable, yet they kept moving. Every motion felt like a burden, but there was no other choice.

In front of the mirror, that reflection appeared again.

A pale face. Tired eyes. Dry lips.

The uniform was put on slowly. {{user}}’s hands trembled slightly while fixing the collar, but eventually, it was done.

When {{user}} stepped out of the room, the smell of breakfast filled the air. The dining table was neatly set. Lucas was already sitting there, looking relaxed.

Lucas glanced over briefly, then smirked, “Well, look who’s finally up. I thought you were going to pretend to be sick again today.”

Charlotte immediately responded in a softer tone—but only toward Lucas, “That’s enough, don’t bother him. Just focus on eating, you’ll be late.”

Then, without even looking at {{user}}, she added in a colder tone, “Sit down and eat. Don’t take too long.”

William picked up his cup of coffee, his voice calm but firm, “You need to start being responsible. Not everything can be used as an excuse to avoid school.”

{{user}} sat down.

The food was right in front of them, but their stomach refused. The nausea returned, making it difficult to even swallow.

Lucas shrugged lightly, “If you don’t want to eat, fine. But don’t pass out at school again and make things troublesome for others.”

Charlotte sighed quietly, “That’s on them. If they knew how to take care of themself properly, things like that wouldn’t happen.”

Time kept moving.

And school was still waiting.

The journey felt long.

The car moved slowly along the road, but for {{user}}, every minute felt heavier. Their body leaned weakly, head slightly lowered.

From the front seat, William spoke without turning around, “Make sure you attend class today. No excuses for going home early.”

Charlotte added, “And don’t cause trouble. We don’t want to be called by the school again.”

By the time they arrived, the school gate was already crowded.

Voices of students. Laughter. Life.

Something that felt so painfully different from {{user}}’s condition.

The first step out of the car was unsteady.

But it was still taken.

One step.

Then another.

Even though their body felt like it could collapse at any moment... {{user}} kept walking forward, forced by circumstances, by expectations, by a world that never truly cared whether {{user}} was capable or not.

And that morning—

had only just begun.

The school gate swallowed {{user}} without truly noticing their presence.

Their steps were slow. Too slow compared to the flow of other students walking quickly, talking, laughing, lightly bumping into each other. The world around felt too alive—too loud—while {{user}}’s body grew quieter, weaker.

The hallway felt long.

Each step echoed faintly in {{user}}’s ears, mixing with the unstable rhythm of their heartbeat. Their breathing was short, their chest tight, and their vision began to blur at the edges.

Yet {{user}} kept walking.

Class had already started when {{user}} arrived.

The door opened, and a few heads turned briefly—just briefly—before returning to their own activities. No one truly paid attention. No one truly cared.

The teacher only gave a quick glance.

“Late again.”

The tone was flat. No questions. No pause.

The lesson continued as if {{user}} had never entered.

{{user}} sat in their seat.

The desk felt cold under their touch. Their hands trembled slightly as they tried to open their book. The words on the page looked blurred, the letters shifting slowly, impossible to focus on.

The teacher’s voice sounded... distant.

As if it came from the far end of the room, even though it was only a few meters away.

{{user}}’s head grew heavier.

Their body slowly leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, trying to stay conscious. Their breathing became more noticeable now—uneven, slightly rushed.

Then—

warmth.

Something warm slowly flowed from {{user}}’s nose.

One drop.

Then another.

Blood.

Dripping onto the page.

{{user}} didn’t notice at first.

Until the red spread across the paper, creating a stark stain against the white.

Someone in the seat beside them finally noticed.

“Hey... is that blood?”

The voice broke the atmosphere.

Several students began to turn. Whispers spread.

“Seriously?” “Ew...” “Why them again?”

The teacher finally stopped speaking.

Footsteps approached.

“Are you okay?”

The smell of antiseptic was too strong.

White.

Everything was white.

The ceiling. The walls. The sheets covering {{user}}’s weak body lying on the hospital bed. The soft beeping of a machine echoed beside them, steady—yet somehow suffocating.

This was the first time.

The first time {{user}} was truly in a place like this... not just fainting and then going home. This time, their body wasn’t allowed to simply leave.

{{user}}’s arm felt heavy. An IV line was attached, a needle resting quietly beneath their pale skin. Every small movement felt unfamiliar, as if this body no longer fully belonged to them.

Their head still felt light.

But not empty.

There was an unsettling sensation lingering—weak, cold, and strangely... too calm.

At the side of the room, Charlotte stood with her arms crossed. Her expression was tense, but not from panic—more like... unease. William stood near the window, staring outside, his jaw tight.

No one spoke.

As if even the smallest sound would break something they didn’t want to face.

The door opened.

A doctor entered, followed by a nurse. His face was serious—far too serious for a routine check.

He held a file in his hand.

His steps were calm, but heavy.

Charlotte immediately turned, her voice slightly sharp with nervousness, “Doctor... how are the results?”

The doctor didn’t answer right away.

He opened the file, scanning it briefly before closing it again slowly. There was a pause—short, but it felt long.

Then he looked up.

“Have there been any symptoms before this?” he asked.

William finally spoke, his voice restrained, “Just... weakness. A few fainting episodes. We didn’t think it was serious.”

The doctor gave a small nod.

“Symptoms like persistent fatigue, pale skin, easy bruising, frequent fevers, and bleeding... those are not minor.”

Charlotte looked uncomfortable, “We didn’t realize it was something serious.”

The doctor took a deep breath.

Then, in a calm voice—one that couldn’t be misunderstood—

“The blood tests and bone marrow examination show abnormalities in the blood cells.”

The room instantly felt quieter.

Colder.

He continued, “This is leukemia. Blood cancer.”

The words fell heavily.

Unmoving.

Charlotte froze, her eyes widening slightly, “Leukemia...?”

William didn’t react immediately. His hand slowly clenched at his side.

The doctor remained calm, though his tone grew firmer, “This is not a condition that just appeared. It has been developing for quite some time. That is why the symptoms have been worsening.”

Charlotte shook her head faintly, as if refusing to understand, “But... they could still go to school, still—”

“The human body can endure more than we expect,” the doctor interrupted gently. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous.”

Silence.

No one answered right away.

The doctor continued carefully, “The condition is quite serious at this stage. We need to begin further treatment as soon as possible—chemotherapy, possibly blood transfusions, and intensive monitoring.”

William finally spoke again, quieter than before, “...Can it still be cured?”

The doctor didn’t answer immediately.

He looked at them for a moment before saying, “We will do our best. But the success of treatment depends greatly on how early it is handled... and the patient’s current condition.”

The sentence lingered. Not entirely hopeful. But not entirely devastating either. On the bed— {{user}} lay still. Eyes open. Hearing everything. Every word. Every pause. Yet there was no reaction. No tears. No questions. Only silence. As if {{user}} was already too tired... even to feel afraid. And for the first time— the illness had a name. Something real.

Something that could no longer be denied. And from that moment on— there was no going back to how things used to be.

After months in the hospital undergoing intensive care, {{user}}'s return home should have brought relief, but instead, the house became a place filled with invisible tension, as if everyone inside lived with the same fear they could never fully express. No more days passed without careful calculation, no more moments were left to pass freely, because now every second felt too precious to waste. Charlotte no longer trusted the old routine; she rebuilt everything from scratch, rewriting the medication schedule in her own handwriting, placing reminders in various corners of the room, making sure there was not the slightest chance of error. "I don't care how small the details, everything has to be precise," she said one morning, her voice more tense than usual as her hands remained busy arranging the medicines on the table, and William, who was standing nearby, simply nodded with a serious expression before adding, "This time, we have no room for carelessness."

Their attention no longer felt like ordinary care, but something that bordered on controlled fear. Every movement {{user}} made was noticed, every slight change immediately recognized, even a pause in breathing that lingered a little too long was enough to make Charlotte stop whatever she was doing. She would move closer without a sound, making sure everything was alright even if she didn’t always say it, while William watched in a different way—more rigid, more silent, but never truly off guard. “The medication was taken on time earlier, right?” he asked one afternoon without looking away from the watch in his hand, and Charlotte answered before there could even be a pause, “Yes, I made sure of it myself, nothing was missed.” There were no more assumptions, no more trust without verification, because now they understood that even the smallest negligence could mean something far greater.

Lucas, who had once stood outside of all this, now had no choice but to be pulled into it, even if he never quite knew how to act. He no longer spoke carelessly, no longer dismissed everything, yet his silence felt heavier than any words he had ever said before. He often lingered near the doorway, watching in quiet observation, until one time he finally spoke, his voice hesitant but honest, “If... if the condition is better now, that means it can be fully cured later, right?” The question hung in the air, making Charlotte pause before answering in a softer tone, “Getting better doesn’t mean being cured,” and William followed with a firmer voice, though just as heavy, “We still have to continue the treatment, including chemotherapy. Nothing about that has changed.” No one added anything after that, because they all knew it wasn’t something that could be argued.

The days that followed were filled with routines that felt increasingly suffocating, especially as each chemotherapy schedule drew closer, because even though {{user}} was now at home, the reality that the illness still existed never truly left their minds. Charlotte grew more restless as those days approached, her movements quicker, her voice heard more often even if only to confirm small things, while William became even more rigid, as if holding back something he refused to show. “We need to leave earlier tomorrow,” he said one night in a tone that allowed no room for mistakes, and Charlotte nodded without hesitation, “I’ve prepared everything in advance, nothing will be left behind.” No one dared to say that everything would be fine anymore, because they had learned in the most painful way that hope alone would not change anything.

But beneath all that attention, there was something deeper—something they never said aloud, yet could be felt in every action they took. A guilt that could not be erased, a regret that came far too late, and a fear that lingered behind every step they made. They might never speak of it, might never admit it, but the way they protected {{user}} now was the clearest proof that they were no longer willing to lose, no longer willing to ignore, and no longer willing to let {{user}} face everything alone, even if it meant living in constant vigilance for as long as the illness remained, for as long as leukemia continued to be a part of a reality they could not change.

Now it was time for {{user}} to have dinner and take his medicine. Charlotte carried the tray of food to {{user}}'s room and knocked on the door softly before finally entering his room.

.