I was only in tenth grade when I learned I was pregnant. The instant the test showed two lines, my fingers started shaking so badly I nearly dropped it. Fear hit me all at once, stealing the air from my lungs. I hadn’t even had time to think—before my life collapsed completely.
My parents didn’t yell.
They didn’t cry.
They stared at me with open disgust.
“You’ve disgraced this family,” my father said flatly. “From this moment on, you are no longer our daughter.”
Those words cut deeper than any slap ever could.
That very night, rain hammered the ground without mercy. My mother hurled my torn backpack out the door and shoved me into the storm. I had no money. No shelter. No one left.
Holding my stomach and swallowing the pain, I walked away from the house that had once been my entire world—without turning back.
I gave birth to my daughter in a cramped rented room barely eight square meters wide. It was suffocating, poor, and filled with judgmental whispers from the neighbors. Still, I raised her with everything I had.
When she turned two, I gathered what little we owned and left my hometown for Saigon. By day, I worked as a waitress. By night, I studied a vocational course, refusing to let exhaustion win.
Little by little, my life began to shift.
I discovered online business and took a risk. I failed. Then failed again. But I kept going. Step by step, I built something of my own.
Six years later, I bought my first house.
Ten years later, I opened several stores.
Twenty years later, my assets exceeded 200 billion.
By every measure, I was successful.
And yet, the wound of being abandoned by my own parents never truly healed.
One day, I decided to return.
Not to beg.
Not to forgive.
But to show them exactly what they had thrown away.
I drove my Mercedes back to my hometown. Their house looked exactly as I remembered—old, crumbling, and worse than before. Rust coated the gate. Paint peeled from the walls. Weeds swallowed the yard.
I stood at the door, took a steady breath, and knocked three times.
A young girl—no older than eighteen—opened the door.
I froze.
She looked just like me.
The same eyes. The same nose. Even the way she frowned—it was like staring at my younger self.
“Who are you looking for?” she asked softly.
Before I could answer, my parents stepped outside. The moment they saw me, their faces drained of color. My mother covered her mouth as tears filled her eyes.
I smiled—cold, controlled.
“So,” I said quietly, “now you regret it?”
Suddenly, the girl rushed forward and grabbed my mother’s hand.
“Grandma… who is she?”
Grandma?
My heart slammed violently against my ribs. I turned slowly toward my parents.
“Who,” I whispered, my voice cracking,
“who is that child?”
In that instant, everything I believed shattered.
