I got pregnant when I was in Grade 10. My parents looked at me coldly and said, “You are the one who brought shame upon this family. From this moment on, you are no longer our child.”

I got pregnant when I was in Grade 10.

My parents looked at me coldly and said,
“You are the one who brought shame upon this family. From this moment on, you are no longer our child.”

I became pregnant when I was in Grade 10.
When I saw the two lines, I panicked so badly that I trembled and could barely stand. I hadn’t even had time to think about what to do when everything was suddenly exposed.

My parents looked at me as if I were something filthy.

“You’ve carried disgrace into this house. From today on, you are no longer our child.”

My father’s words felt like a brutal slap across my face.

That night, it was raining.
My mother threw my torn backpack outside and drove me out. I didn’t have a single coin in my pocket. I had nowhere to go.

Holding my stomach, I endured the pain and walked away from the house that had once been the calmest, safest place in my life—without ever looking back.

I gave birth to my daughter in an eight–square–meter boarding room.
It was hard, miserable, and full of whispers and gossip. But I raised her with everything I had. When my daughter turned two, I left our province and took her with me to Sài Gòn. I worked as a waitress while studying a vocational course.

Then fate finally smiled on me.

I got the chance to start an online business, and later I built my own company.
After six years, I bought a house.
After ten years, I opened a chain of stores.
After twenty years… my assets exceeded 200 billion Vietnamese dong.

I knew I had succeeded.

But the pain in my chest—the wound of being cast out by my own parents—never truly disappeared.

One day, I decided to go back.
Not to forgive.
But to make them feel what they had lost.

I drove my new Mercedes back to my hometown. The old, broken house was still there, almost unchanged from twenty years ago—if not worse. The iron gate was rusted. The paint on the walls was peeling. The yard was overgrown with weeds.

I stood in front of the door, took a deep breath, and knocked three times.

A young girl, about eighteen years old, came out to open the door.

I froze.

She… looked exactly like me. From her eyes, her nose, even the way she frowned. It was as if I were looking at myself when I was young.

“Who are you looking for?” the girl asked politely.

Before I could answer, my parents came out of the house. When they saw me, both of them stopped. My mother raised her hand to her mouth, her eyes turning red.

I smiled coldly.
“So… now you regret it?”

But the girl suddenly ran over and grabbed my mother’s hand.
“Grandma, who is she?”

Grandma?

I froze completely. My chest felt like it was being crushed. I turned to my parents.

“Who… who is this child?”

My mother burst into tears.
“She… she is your daughter.”

I died inside.

I almost screamed,
“That’s impossible! My daughter has been with me since she was little! What are you talking about?!”

My father sighed. His voice trembled, clearly aged by time.
“We… adopted a baby that was abandoned at our gate… eighteen years ago.”

My body went cold.
“Abandoned? At the gate?”

My mother took out a faded old diaper from the cabinet. I recognized it instantly. It was the diaper I had wrapped my baby in when she was born.

It felt like my heart was being stabbed.

Crying, my mother explained,
“After you left… a few months later, her father came. He wanted to take the child back, but you had already taken her to Sài Gòn. He got angry, started drinking, caused trouble everywhere… and then disappeared for a long time.

Eighteen years ago… early one morning, I opened the door and saw a newborn baby placed in front of our gate. She had nothing with her except this diaper. I knew… I knew it had something to do with you. I thought… maybe something terrible had happened to you… maybe… you were gone.”

Her voice broke as she cried.

“We were wrong about you back then. But this child… we couldn’t bear to leave her in an orphanage. We raised her as our own. We never hurt her or scolded her—not even once.”

I was shaking.

I remembered clearly: I had carefully hidden that diaper in a wooden box. No one knew about it. If someone had left this baby at my parents’ gate… there was only one possibility.

The real father of my daughter.

He… had another child with another woman. Then he abandoned her in the very place where he knew I had been thrown out years before.

I looked at the girl—the child I did not give birth to, yet who looked shockingly like me.

Shyly, she asked,
“Big sister… why are you crying?”

I hugged her and cried like I had never cried in my entire life.

My parents fell to their knees.
“Forgive us. We were wrong. But please don’t be angry at the child… she did nothing wrong.”

I looked at them, and the twenty years of resentment in my heart suddenly dissolved. Not because they deserved forgiveness—but because I understood something.

This child needed a family.
And I… needed to close the door on the past.

I stood up, wiped my tears, and said,
“I didn’t come back to take revenge. I came back… to take what is mine.”

I held the girl’s hand and smiled.
“From now on, you are my sister.”

My parents remained there, crying like children.