Grandma’s eyes went wide, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “You jinx! What nonsense are you spouting? If the fish died, we’ll just buy another one! But if you drive your father away with this attitude, I swear I’ll skin you alive!”
I didn’t argue. I just sat there, letting her insult me.
Because she wasn’t wrong. I really was about to play the role of an ungrateful daughter.
But my father let out a long sigh, clearly thinking I was just being childish.
“Oh, so that’s all this is? Fine, I’ll buy another one exactly like it.”
Yet I shook my head slowly, locking eyes with him.
“No. There’s no such thing as another fish exactly like it.”
His expression froze. His gaze sharpened, almost flinching, as though my words had burned him.
The truth was, the man sitting across from me wasn’t my biological father at all. He was my stepfather.
My real father had been murdered by a serial killer when I was three years old, but the killer was already caught two years later. And that same year, my mother met my stepfather.
At the time, Grandma worried he wouldn’t want me and even suggested my mom send me away to someone else. But unexpectedly, my stepfather had always treated me well.