Chapter 2
Miriam suddenly looked up and grabbed my mom's skirt. "Mrs. Currey! The girl next to you, Isabella—she's my daughter. Melissa is your real flesh and blood."
Gasps filled the room.
The crowd buzzed like a kicked beehive, gossip spreading everywhere. Some people covered their mouths, others exchanged glances, and a few snuck looks at me, their eyes gleaming with anticipation for the drama about to unfold.
My father, Daniel Currey, pushed his way out of the crowd, his face dark with anger. He shot Miriam a look, then turned to me, his eyes so complicated I couldn't read them at all.
"Are you telling the truth?" he asked, his voice tight.
His tone was low, barely holding back his fury.
Miriam dropped to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. "Mr. Currey, I've come this far. Do you really think I'd lie now? For twenty years, my conscience has tormented me. Every time I see Isabella, I'm reminded of the sin I committed.
"I'm not here begging for forgiveness. I just want you to recognize Melissa. She doesn't want anything from you, she just wants to call you 'Dad'!"
Melissa, standing behind her, lifted her head, her eyes red from holding back tears, but she refused to let them fall.
She looked at my father and softly called out, "Mr. Currey."
That "Mr. Currey" landed perfectly—not too close, not too distant, with a hint of careful hesitation and a touch of longing she just couldn't hide.
I could tell she'd rehearsed that line.
My father stayed silent.
My mother stood there, her expression slowly freezing. She glanced at me, then at Melissa, her lips parted a few times, but no words came out.
Miriam was still on her knees, crawling a couple of steps closer to me. "Isabella, you... you're innocent too. You're my daughter. Watching you grow up all these years has torn me apart. But today, I can't keep this secret any longer..."
As she said this, she looked up at me—her eyes were actually shining with tears.
If I weren't one of the main characters in this drama, I might've been genuinely moved by her motherly love.
But unfortunately, the one standing here listening to her 'heartfelt confession' was the very 'innocent daughter' she spoke of.
I lowered my gaze to her.
Twenty years.
For as long as I can remember, she'd been working for the Currey family. She used to braid my hair, warm up my milk, and every New Year, when my mom handed her a cash bonus, she'd smile, pat me on the head, and say, "Thank you, Ma'am."
Back then, I honestly thought she was a genuinely kind person.
Now she was kneeling before a crowd of over five hundred, telling everyone herself that I was her daughter.
Admitting that she was the one who personally switched me twenty years ago.
Suddenly, I felt an urge to laugh.
The party hall was thrown into chaos.
A few elders who were tight with the Currey family tried to calm things down, herding guests toward an adjacent lounge. But nobody actually left—this kind of high-society drama was a once-in-a-lifetime spectacle.
People clustered at the lounge entrance, whispering nonstop, their eyes glued to us the whole time.
Miriam stayed kneeling, while Melissa stood behind her, head down, sniffling softly. Her sobs were just loud enough for people nearby to catch, but not so dramatic that it felt fake.
After a long silence, my dad finally said, "Get up. I'll figure this out."
But Miriam wouldn't budge, still kneeling, tearful as she looked up at my mom. "Mrs. Currey, Melissa... just take a look at her. Doesn't she look just like you did when you were young?"
With that, all eyes turned to Melissa.
I looked over, too.
Melissa's features... yeah, her brows and eyes did kind of resemble my mom's. But honestly, it was nothing remarkable. There were plenty of people out there who looked just as similar.
My mother stayed silent. She just stared at Melissa, her eyes stormy with emotion.
Melissa, feeling the intensity of her gaze, got nervous and instinctively lowered her head, but then she glanced up, her eyes wide and nervous, sneaking a look back.
Her gaze was soft and obedient, like a puppy afraid of being abandoned.
Watching her, I couldn't help but cringe—it was so sweet it made my teeth ache.
"Mrs. Currey, if you don't believe me..." Miriam struggled to rise, digging into her bag and pulling something out. "Look at this."
A photograph.
Old, its edges yellowed with age—obviously taken ages ago.
My mom took it, and the moment she glanced at it, her face instantly drained of color.
Miriam, her voice trembling, said, "This is my daughter... Melissa when she was little. Look at her earlobe, that mole, it's identical to yours."
I leaned in to get a better look.
The photo showed a little girl, maybe three or four years old, with two pigtails and a faded cotton jacket, standing in front of a battered wooden door. On her left earlobe, there really was a tiny black mole. I felt a strange chill run down my spine.