Chapter 3
Victoria stood downstairs, her gaze icy as she stared at me.
"Are you sure you want to leave?" she asked.
I nodded, clutching my duffel bag.
Inside were my pajamas, comic books, chips, and my gaming console.
There was also a bunny plush Andrew gave me when I was little.
I wasn't going to bring it at first.
But it's stuck with me through countless scoldings.
Guess you could say we've got a bit of that battle buddy vibe.
Charles sat on the couch, not even glancing my way.
"If you walk out that door, don't come crawling back in tears," he said.
I nodded.
"Don't worry, Dad," I said.
"If I cry, I'll make sure no one sees me. I won't make the Quinn family look bad," I added.
Andrew stood at the foot of the stairs, shooting daggers at my duffel bag, his face clouded over.
"Sophie, that's really all you're bringing?" he asked, sounding half annoyed, half worried.
"Yeah, that's all I need," I shot back.
"Not even taking your card?" he pressed.
"Nope," I replied.
"What about jewelry?" he asked.
"Nope," I replied.
"Designer clothes?" he pressed.
"Nope," I shot back.
All that stuff was just for show.
They were exquisite, expensive, but never fit me right.
Whenever I wore them, I looked like a kid playing dress-up in adult clothes.
April stood in the middle of the living room.
She'd already changed into the new dress the Quinn family's housekeeper picked out for her. It was beautiful, elegant, and fit her perfectly.
She looked like the true Quinn heiress.
I waved at her.
"You got this, April!" I said.
"The trainer will knock on your door at 5 a.m. sharp tomorrow," I added.
"He hates it when people are late," I warned.
"If you're even a minute late, that's ten extra minutes of planks," I said.
April's face went stiff.
I added:
"My mom also likes to check under your nails.
"My dad likes to quiz you about world news over breakfast.
"And my brother hates chit-chat.
"Oh, and the family dog's name is Newton," I added.
"Even Newton acts like he's above me," I said.
April finally snapped.
"Get out," she said.
I felt like I'd just been granted a reprieve.
"Alright!" I called out.
I grabbed my duffel bag and bolted out the Quinn family's front door.
The night breeze hit me, and I took a deep breath.
That was the smell of freedom.
With a hint of exhaust mixed in.
But honestly, it smelled way better than that cold, fancy air freshener in the Quinn family's living room.
*****
The Morgans' diner was tucked away at the end of Southside Lane.
The entrance was tiny, with a little sign that said "Spring Dawn Diner."
When I stood at the door with my duffel bag, the place was steaming with the scent of breakfast.
Serving trays were stacked up, one on top of the other.
The coffee machine was rumbling away.
A middle-aged man stood there in an apron, his hands dusted with flour.
A woman was clearing the tables, her hair tied back in a messy bun, sweat glistening on her face.
She looked up and froze when she saw me.
The rag in her hand dropped to the floor with a thud.
"You..." she started, stunned.
My nose prickled.
"Mom?" I called out.
Her eyes welled up instantly.
"Soph?" she called out.
I suddenly felt lost, not even sure what name to answer to.
With the Quinns, I was Sophie.
At school, my classmates called me Quinn the Loser.
At parties, people called me the impostor heiress.
But when she called me "Soph," it hit me like a splash of hot coffee right to the heart.
She ran over and hugged me tight.
She smelled of cooking oil, scallions, and laundry detergent.
It was a comforting scent.
Way better than any perfume.
"My baby girl," Mrs. Morgan sobbed.
She was crying so hard her shoulders were shaking.
"I'm so sorry, Soph, I had no idea you were switched at birth until now," she choked out.
I couldn't help but cry too.
But man, I felt pretty awkward about it.
Right then, my stomach let out a loud growl.
Grumble, so loud everyone heard it.
Mrs. Morgan paused mid-sob.
Mr. Morgan stopped in his tracks.
I clutched my stomach, feeling kinda embarrassed.
"Uh, I didn't get enough to eat at the family reunion party," I mumbled.
Mr. Morgan spun around.
"Eat!" he barked.
"What do you wanna eat?" he asked.
I glanced at all those loaded trays, and honestly, I nearly burst into tears again.
"Can I have some rolls?" I asked, my voice a little shaky.
"Of course!" Mr. Morgan said, beaming.
"Sausage rolls?" I asked, hope in my eyes.
"You bet!" he said, not missing a beat.
"Two?" I asked, sounding a bit timid.
Mr. Morgan banged his hand on the table.
"Twenty!" he announced, loud and proud.
I couldn't believe it.
'So this is what having a real dad feels like?' I thought.
That night, I ate four sausage rolls, a bowl of ravioli, two breadsticks, and half a bowl of sweet custard.
Mrs. Morgan kept piling food onto my plate.
"Slow down," she said, her voice gentle.
"Did the Quinns not feed you?" she asked, worry in her voice.
I mumbled:
"Yeah, I ate," I said.
"Just never really got full," I added.
Victoria kept me on a tight leash when it came to food.
Carbs were basically forbidden.
To her, sugar was pure evil.
To her, fried food was a sign you were slipping down the social ladder.
One time, I tried sneaking some fried chicken, and Andrew caught me red-handed.
He stood at my door, face blank.
"Sophie, do you realize that one piece of fried chicken just ruined all your efforts to stay in shape today?" he asked.
I tried to play it cool.
"Seriously, Andrew, it's just chicken breast," I said, trying to sound casual.
He shot a look at the drumstick in my hand.
"You seriously have no clue where the chicken breast even is," Andrew said, totally unimpressed.
After that, my fried chicken privileges were revoked.