I smiled sweetly and nudged my friend to hand me the DNA report. Then, with deliberate cheer, I said, "Oh, that's funny, Trisha. You've been nesting in someone else's home for eight years, and you're still playing the victim?"
"Let's make things clear—you and I are both adopted. But unlike you, I never pretended to be something I'm not."
I held up the papers and continued, my tone dripping with irony. "Hi everyone, I'm the best friend of Carmela—the real daughter of the Lambert family—and yes, I was adopted too. But the Lambert family didn't take me in for fun. They were just afraid someone might bully Carmela, so they wanted me to protect her. Like today."
The room went silent again—and this time, all eyes turned toward Trisha, filled with contempt.
What was this situation? It was like a thief crying "Catch the thief!"—the irony couldn't be more ridiculous.
Even the girls who normally didn't get along with her joined in the mockery.
"That's right! You act like some noble rich girl every day, but turns out you're just a country pheasant pretending to be one!"
Their laughter rang out, sharp and merciless—each chuckle landing like a slap across Trisha's face.