1 Sela
SELA’S NARRATION
“My name is Sela. I’m eleven, and this is my family. My oldest sister, Lianna, is seventeen years old. My brother, Leo, is fifteen, and Paula is one year younger than I am.
I was only five when Lianna first said it. She stood in the doorway with her books and sneered, ‘You’re adopted. You don’t even deserve to be loved.’ The words poked me all over. My stomach twisted. My hands balled up, and it felt like I couldn’t swallow.
I didn’t know what ‘adopted’ meant then, so I ran to my mother and asked. She smoothed my hair and told me not to worry. But Lianna kept saying it, tossing the word around like dirt, enjoying how it made me flinch.
Since I was little, whenever my mother clapped for me or hugged me, Lianna and Leo would make faces like something smelled rotten. If I tried to sit beside them, they shoved me off the couch or walked away without a glance. I asked my mother why, and she only told me to ignore them.
Still, I followed them everywhere, trying to be a good little sister. But they always turned their backs.
Now I’m eleven, and I know what the word means. I’m starting to hear it from Leo, too. He has a habit of flicking his hair back before he says it, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Dad would hear them whisper ‘adoptee’ across the table, but he would just clear his throat and keep eating. I thought maybe that was how families were.
One afternoon, my mother heard them. Her face turned red, and she slammed her chopsticks so hard the bowls rattled. Lianna and Leo froze. Then, when Mom looked away, they glared at me as if I were the one in trouble.
My mother is the only one who pulls me into her arms and tells me I’m precious. My father walks past me in the hall as if I’m part of the wall. At dinner, his eyes slide over me like I’m not even there.
Sometimes, Lianna and Leo shove me against the banister when I try to follow them upstairs and laugh like I’m invisible. If Mom scolds them, they wait until she leaves. Then they lean close and whisper, sharp and low, ‘Crybaby. Adoptee. Don’t you tell her.’
Paula is nice. She’s little, and sometimes she squeezes my hand when no one’s looking. One time, she even nudged me toward the table and whispered, ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got you.’ That tiny act makes me step a little taller, like someone is really on my side.
Sometimes I wish they would just talk to me and tell me why.
Why do they treat me like this? Did I do something wrong? Or… am I just dirty?”
