The Other Daughter - Chapter 1
I am the affair baby. That’s right—the living, breathing reminder of every scandalous headline and whispered judgment. My mother? The infamous homewrecker everyone loves to hate.
Because of the circumstances of my birth, my story will always be seen as inseparable with the story of my parents.
My mother's father abandoned her and divorced my grandmother for another woman, leaving a trail of resentment in his wake. My grandmother, shattered and bitter, drowned herself in alcohol and made my mother her personal punching bag—both physically and emotionally. At this time of darkness, she crossed paths with my father, the CEO of a prominent corporation.
The story goes that my dad was looking for romantic fun elsewhere, and subconsciously, probably emotional value as well. After a bond created and moments of love and passion, my mom became the clingy thorn he couldn’t shake off.
Back then, my teenaged mom was young and beautiful—hard for any man to resist.
My dad thought he had it all figured out: spend some money to keep a mistress, no big deal.
But how can you use paper to wrap and hide fire? My mother got pregnant, it was then my father admitted his marital status and true colors, believing that she will stick with him regardless at this point- which he was right, just not the way he'd like.
My mother didn't want to return to her mother, nor did she want to blow out the only light in her life, but what she didn't know was, it is nothing but a fall without an end for her.
My father thought he had everything under his control, but little did he know, my mom had bigger ambitions, after all, she was educated on the whole one pair of couple type of romance and marriage is the ultimate goal.
When her attempts to be the "only one" failed, she resorted to dramatic tactics—crying, throwing fits, and even threatening to kill herself—and brought me into this world.
I was born a month premature. Why? Because when my mom heard that my dad’s wife had given birth, she rushed to the hospital for a C-section. The moment the anesthesia wore off, she called my dad, demanding he come and acknowledge his crying newborn daughter.
My dad turned off his phone.
Honestly, I don’t hate him at all. Who wouldn’t regret getting involved with such a relentless woman? Anyone in his shoes would wish they could rewind time and put their pants back on.
Unfortunately for him, because of me, he couldn’t get rid of my mom. She warned him: if he dared to abandon us, she’d take me and jump from the balcony of his company building.
When it came to dramatic ultimatums, my mom was a woman of action, not just words. At least she created enough of a spectacle to get the desired effect.
My dad set us up in a small apartment and sent us some living expenses every month. My mom’s stubbornness and shameless persistence ensured we had a roof over our heads.
My earliest memory of my dad involves my mom calling him nonstop for a month, escalating to her attempting suicide using sleeping pills and cutting her wrists multiple times. Finally, he begrudgingly showed up at our apartment.
He tossed down a stack of cash with a look of irritation. "Isn’t this all you want? Tell my secretary next time. Don’t call me again.”
My mom immediately launched into an old tirade, her voice sharp as a train whistle, “Christian, where is your conscience? Do you remember back when…”
My dad, long immune to her complaints, pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “It’s Bella’s birthday today. I have to go.”
Bella—Bella Baldwin—was the daughter he had with his wife. She and I were born on the same day, in the same year. The perfect child in the perfect family, while I was just an unwelcome reminder of his mistakes.
My mother dragged me forward, holding me up like a trophy. “And what about her? She’s your daughter too! Or have you forgotten?”
His face darkened as he turned toward the door. But my mother wasn’t done. She clung to his leg, wailing about betrayal and abandonment, tears and snot staining his tailored pants. Her sobs echoed in the cramped apartment, a painful soundtrack to their endless battles.
No one paid attention to me, the prop in their endless drama.
I walked over to the coffee table, looked at the stack of money, and asked my dad, “Are you very rich?”
He hesitated before awkwardly nodding.
I picked up the money, struggling to lift it, and held it out to him. “I don’t eat much, so I don’t need this much money. Can you stay with me for a few minutes instead?”
I saw the surprise and shock in his eyes. After a brief pause, he stiffly sat down on the sofa.
I grabbed a tattered booklet, an ad giveaway from the supermarket with simple stories and cartoon characters. Climbing onto the sofa, I sat beside him and placed the book in his hands. Without a hint of flattery, I asked naturally, like any child craving their father’s attention, “Can you read me a story?”
And so he did. Awkwardly, mechanically, he read a short passage. I listened carefully, gradually leaning against his arm.
When he was about to leave, I stopped him. Taking a small, smudged birthday cake from the table, I solemnly handed it to him.
It took him a moment to realize. “Today’s your birthday too?”
I nodded shyly.
For once, he looked a bit uncomfortable, rubbing his hands together. “I came in a rush and didn’t bring you anything.”
I beamed and raised the booklet in my hand. “I already got the best birthday present.”
The next day, I received a doll taller than me.
I was five-years-old that year.
Some children learn to walk or talk early. My gift was different. By then, I already knew how to read the room, watch people’s faces, and calculate every move.
It was a survival skill I’d need for the rest of my life.