After I Kicked My Adopted Son Away, My Scumbag Dad’s Good-Guy Act Fell Apart

I listened to my mom talk about a novel called The Powerful Minister’s Palm-Sized Sparrow, a groveling-after-the-breakup romance, every day while I was in her womb. As a result, I was born with severe “scumbag PTSD.” While other girls chased celebrities and called them “oppa,” I memorized criminal law, studied cases of emotional manipulation, and vowed to send every potential jerk to prison to work a sewing machine. While other girls experienced the sweetness of first love, I worried about being used and having my heart broken. I trained hard in self-defense, learning moves that could make a six-foot-tall strongman drop to his knees and beg for mercy. But by the time I turned eighteen, I still hadn’t met the bastard who would treat me as a substitute, take my kidney, and then try to win me back. My adoptive parents were the picture of marital bliss. My male classmates were sweet, puppy-like boys. Even the dogs on the street wagged their tails when they saw me. Just when I was starting to think I’d wasted my time studying The 360 Ways to Fight Emotional Manipulation, my biological father, the all-powerful richest man in the country, sent someone to bring me home. The stern-faced man looked me up and down, his eyes full of scrutiny and disdain. Beside him stood the son he had adopted. “From now on, you’ll live here. Don’t cause trouble for the family.” My adoptive brother seemed gentle on the surface, but that night he cornered me in the hallway and used the exact line the hero had said in the novel: “You’d better behave. Don’t even think about taking anyone’s place.” Just as I thought the groveling-after-the-breakup plot was finally about to begin, Dad suddenly kicked the door open and sent his beloved adopted son staggering. He pointed furiously at him. “Who do you think you are, talking to my daughter like that? Guards, teach him a lesson!”