The Green Parasol Tree Does Not Perch

I think I'm the child of a mistress.

Getting my period at thirteen meant I was developing too fast and was loose.

Coming home late from high school because I hadn't finished my schoolwork meant I'd deliberately wandered outside to seduce men.

When I came home late and hadn't had time to tidy up, Mom looked at me with utter disappointment as soon as she walked through the door.

"How can you let the house get this messy without cleaning it up? You're so lazy. What will you do if your husband's family beats you to death?"

But then she turned around and put the latest phone in my younger brother's hands, ignoring the trash he'd left scattered around him.

"Our little darling is amazing. He can play games casually and still make the leaderboard. Don't end up like your sister, wasting so much money on tuition and still embarrassing the family!"

So I gathered the hair of all three of us and had a paternity test done.

The results came back.

I was Mom's biological child.

But the son she'd carried for ten months and given birth to wasn't.