In the end, my daughter didn’t get to go to school with my son.

It seemed Olivia and her family had begun to notice how much my daughter resembled her husband. Fearing their secret might be exposed, they acted quickly.

A week later, my daughter was moved out of the house.

Olivia claimed my daughter had become increasingly unruly, often teaching my son bad habits. “I can’t let her stay here and corrupt the young sir,” she declared with feigned righteousness.

She announced her plan to send my daughter back to her hometown, where her grandparents would “take care of her.”

Suspicious, I secretly had someone investigate. The truth was far more chilling. Olivia hadn’t sent my daughter away but had rented a nearby house. There, she kept my daughter tied to a bed with a rope, severely restricting her movements.

Olivia visited only once a day, slipping in quietly to leave a pot of plain porridge. That was the extent of her care. She treated my daughter like an unwanted burden, left to endure her misery alone.

On my son’s tenth birthday, I insisted that Olivia bring my daughter to the celebration. I wanted to see her, even if just for a moment.

When my daughter appeared, my breath caught, and tears threatened to spill. No amount of preparation could have softened the blow.

She was frighteningly thin, her frail frame resembling that of a five or six-year-old child. She walked with a limp, one leg clearly broken and never properly treated.

But the worst was her face. It was disfigured, marred with burn scars that twisted her delicate features.

I knew immediately why they had done this. My husband and I had once commented that she bore a faint resemblance to him. Because of that, they mutilated her.

The realization hit me like a knife to the heart—Olivia and her family were more ruthless than I had imagined.

As I stood there in stunned silence, Olivia caught my gaze. Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles, a smile so cold it sent shivers down my spine.

Olivia raised her hand and pinched her daughter’s scarred face with a mockingly sweet smile.

“This silly girl,” she said, feigning pity. “She poured hot water on herself and got scalded. Such a clumsy child. It’s a good thing I sent her back to the countryside; otherwise, you, Madam, would have had to spend a fortune dealing with this.”

Her words were like poison, and my body shook with anger.

“You gave birth to a daughter but didn’t raise her properly,” I said, my voice trembling. “You’ve ruined her life, and when she grows up, she’ll hate you for everything you’ve done. You’ll regret it one day.”

Olivia sneered, her expression void of remorse. “Regret? You think I’ll regret this? The fact that Misty is still alive is the greatest gift I’ve given her. Look at her! She’s lucky to even have that.”

She continued with an air of triumph. “There’s even a second-rate fool from the village who fancies her. He’s willing to marry her once she grows up. Imagine that—a silly girl like her, with someone waiting for her! Isn’t that more than she deserves?”

My husband and mother-in-law burst into laughter, clutching their stomachs, their faces filled with admiration for Olivia’s cold-hearted “pragmatism.” Their approval was blatant, a shared acknowledgment of her ruthless cunning.

I stood there, staring at them, disappointment weighing heavily on me. Words failed me in the face of their vile indifference.

I took my daughter into the house, determined to give her the birthday she had likely never dared to hope for. For one evening, I tried to make her feel loved, if only to counter the years of neglect she had endured.

But the reprieve was short-lived. After the celebration, Olivia wasted no time sending her daughter away again.

Before they left, I bought my daughter as many gifts as I could, hoping to brighten her bleak existence even slightly. Deep down, though, I knew the truth—Olivia would never let her keep them. She wouldn’t allow my daughter to experience even a shred of kindness from me.

I said nothing, forcing myself to focus on the sliver of hope that my daughter, despite everything, was still alive.

In the days that followed, I buried myself in work, often staying at the office overnight. My absence seemed to please my husband and his family, as it allowed them to revel in their twisted version of harmony without my interference.

Through surveillance, I saw them laughing and enjoying each other’s company, a grotesque display of unity built on cruelty.

As time went on, Olivia grew increasingly bold, her actions becoming more outrageous. One day, she even cornered her son privately, asking him, "Tell me, do you love me more or your mother?"

Her son, despite being spoiled by their indulgence, had a remarkably clear sense of right and wrong. He shot her an annoyed glare and replied, "Of course I love my mother. Aren't you just the nanny my family hired to take care of me?"

Olivia froze, stunned by his bluntness, but he wasn’t finished. "If it weren’t for my mom working hard to earn money, all of us would starve. And if you say anything bad again, I’ll tell my mom!"

Olivia’s face turned an angry shade of blue. She wanted to lash out but held herself back, knowing she couldn’t risk further exposing herself.

That night, while reviewing the surveillance footage, I watched as Olivia gathered my husband and mother-in-law in the living room, her face twisted with resentment.

“I’ve had enough!” she snapped, her voice trembling with frustration. “I’m fed up with this life! I raised such an excellent son for this family, and yet he only sees me as a nanny! A nanny!”

"When I think about my son calling someone else 'Mom,' I feel like I’m falling apart. When will this end?" My husband’s voice was laced with frustration, his teeth grinding with the weight of the situation.

My mother-in-law chimed in proudly, "Older people have more experience. If it weren’t for my plan to switch the babies, we wouldn’t have gained any advantage over Sophia."

My husband nodded in agreement, his eyes narrowing. "That clever bitch, Sophia, has been keeping her guard up against me all these years. She won’t let me interfere in the company’s affairs." He clenched his fists. "But don’t worry. She’s already agreed to give her son 20% of the company shares once he comes of age."

He leaned forward, a dark glint in his eyes. "When that contract is signed, we’ll reveal the truth to her. She won’t know what hit her, and she’ll be completely dumbfounded."

The three of them laughed in unison, their expressions twisted with a sense of victory. The room felt cold with their shared malice.

I sat quietly, hidden behind the screen, watching them, my silence speaking louder than any words I could have said. Instead of confronting them, I chose to ignore their scheming.

While their motives were vile, there was no denying their dedication to raising their son. They poured all their energy into making sure he had the best opportunities, shaping him into a motivated, strong, and capable young man.

The boy excelled in both academics and athletics, impressing everyone around him. He was admitted to one of the city's top high schools, and before long, he turned 18.

My husband and mother-in-law immediately began preparing for his coming-of-age ceremony. They booked a hotel, arranged the details, and made sure everything would be perfect. My husband, especially, had been coming to me with ideas for what kind of gift to give our son.

I understood exactly what he was thinking, so I handed him the draft of the share transfer contract. His face relaxed as he read it, a look of relief spreading across him. He gave me a nod of approval and worked even harder.

The day before my son's coming-of-age ceremony, I casually mentioned to Olivia that I hadn’t seen her daughter in a while and asked if she could bring her along to make the occasion livelier.

For a moment, a smug grin flashed across Olivia’s face, though she quickly masked it. With feigned reluctance, she said, "Madam, this is such an important day for the young sir. How could you let that... girl, make a spectacle of herself?"

I smiled sweetly and responded, "How can you, as a mother, speak about your daughter that way? No one will laugh at her, I’m sure."

She smiled back, her tone dripping with insincerity. "Madam is so kind. I’ll go back to the countryside and bring her here."

Despite her words of gratitude, I could see the glee in her eyes—she was obviously plotting something far more malicious.

The next day, the grand coming-of-age ceremony for my son took place at one of the city's most luxurious hotels. The banquet hall was filled with influential guests, local elites, and familiar faces.

Then, Olivia arrived with my daughter in tow. The moment they entered, all eyes turned to her. My daughter, in stark contrast to the lavish setting, was dressed in rough, unpolished linen clothes, and there was dirt deliberately smeared on them—Olivia’s little touch of cruelty.

As my daughter limped across the floor, the scars on her face remained shocking, a constant reminder of the torment she had endured. But it wasn’t just her appearance that drew gasps—it was the visible sign of her pregnancy.

Olivia had openly claimed that, once my son came of age, he would marry the village girl. It seemed she had kept her word.

Watching my daughter, meek and vulnerable, I couldn’t help but shake my head, my heart heavy with a sense of helplessness.

The ceremony continued without interruption, and soon it was time for me to present my son with his gift. Surrounded by family and friends, with my husband, mother-in-law, and Olivia watching, I stood on stage and signed the share transfer contract, officially passing on 20% of the company’s shares to my son. The crowd erupted in applause, praising him for his fortune and calling him lucky to have such a mother.

Just as the applause began to die down, a loud, jarring ringtone sliced through the air, cutting through the moment. It was Olivia’s phone, turned up to full volume for all to hear. She answered it, her voice raised in exaggerated surprise. “What? Really?”

With excitement and joy, Olivia rushed to the stage, practically tripping over her own feet in her haste. As she reached me, she thrust her cell phone in the air, her voice loud and eager.

“Wrong, wrong, ma’am, everything is completely wrong!” she shouted. “I am Jacob’s biological mother!”

At that moment, I couldn’t help but sneer internally. I had waited eighteen years for this very day.