He Said Mine So I Took Him Instead

My hands kept shaking under the table, so I couldn’t help but keep fidgeting against my thighs while my foot nervously bounced on the floor, my gaze stuck on the clock hanging above the whiteboard like it was the only thing I could focus on. So yeah, me and the rest of my lower sixth science class basically got stuck in detention after school because apparently “forgetting” to do homework is a group hobby now, and the whole class had to suffer for it. At the front, Mr. Calloway was posted like he was guarding state secrets or something, his eyes slowly scanning the room like he was waiting for someone to blink wrong so he could call it a crime, while everyone who didn’t finish their work was scrambling to catch up under his super intense “I see everything” stare. The whole room was painfully quiet except for the scratching of pens, and honestly, I was ninety-nine percent sure my breathing sounded like I had just run a marathon. Congrats to me for existing too loudly in silence. It had already been fifteen minutes since the bell rang and school officially let out, but instead of feeling relieved, I just kept getting more and more anxious with every passing second, like time itself was moving against me. I could feel my face going pale, like all the color had quietly drained away, while tiny beads of sweat started forming on my forehead, making me even more aware of how tense I was getting. I was basically a bundle of nerves at that point, my eyes constantly flicking around the room before snapping back to the clock again and again, like I was hoping it would somehow glitch and fast-forward just so I could finally get out of there. I already knew I was going to be in deep trouble the moment I stepped through that front door. I just didn’t know exactly how bad it would get. He’d definitely lose it when I didn’t make it home before four, and honestly, that was only going to make things worse, especially since I was pretty sure I was about to embarrass him right in front of his work friends who would probably still be there. He always took pride in having what he called the perfect family, like everything in our lives had to stay polished and picture-ready no matter what. My mom basically lived in that role. She didn’t work outside, just stayed home handling everything like cleaning, washing, and cooking, and somehow still managed to look put together all the time like it was effortless. Even at home, she never really dressed down. It was always a fitted pencil skirt, a tucked-in blouse, and heels softly clicking against the floor with every step. Her chestnut-brown hair, the same shade as mine, was always twisted into a neat bun, and her makeup stayed light but flawless, like she was constantly prepared for unexpected guests. It didn’t matter if she was just staying inside. In his eyes, she still had to look presentable at all times, like being comfortable was never part of the deal. I was never the kind of daughter he wanted. No matter how much effort I put in at school or at home, I always fell short in his eyes, like I was never even close to good enough. And I wasn’t clueless about it either. I knew he had wanted a son, not a daughter, someone he believed could actually take over the family business. The funny part was that business was something I was completely kept away from. He made sure of that on purpose, like I wasn’t meant to even brush against it. I had no idea what he actually did or where our money came from, and honestly, it felt like living in a house built on secrets I wasn’t allowed to open. It didn’t help that I looked more like my mom than him. The only thing I got from him were my eyes, which he never really liked seeing on my face. They were this bright jade-green color, like fresh grass under sunlight or a polished emerald catching light even in the dullest room. What made them stand out even more were the tiny gold flecks scattered around my irises, like they didn’t belong there but refused to disappear. And yeah, I hated them too. Because every time I looked in the mirror, I saw the one thing we actually shared. I used to think that kind of thing was impossible, like some weird science-fiction detail that didn’t belong in real life. But I was basically walking proof that it was real, even if I still didn’t fully understand how. The rest of me, though, came straight from my mom. I got her small build, barely five foot two, which made me a whole foot shorter than him and probably part of why he always looked at me like I was something fragile or inconvenient. I had her soft curly brown hair, the light sprinkle of freckles across my cheeks and nose, and her naturally red-tinted Cupid’s bow lips that always made me look softer than I actually felt inside. I looked like her in almost every way. Small and feminine, or at least that’s what everyone saw. But in his eyes, that just translated to weak and useless. I wasn’t the son he wanted. Not even close. And it felt like he never even tried to hide how much he resented that fact.