I was in a horrific accident and left unconscious. The doctors called my parents—they said…

Just gaslighting and breakfast as usual. I learned that day that in our house, truth was less important than appearance. After that, I threw myself into being perfect.

If I couldn’t be loved for who I was, perhaps I could be valued for what I achieved. I graduated top of my class in high school. Got a full scholarship to MIT.

Started my first tech company at 22. My parents attended my graduation, of course. They smiled for photos and accepted congratulations for having raised such an accomplished daughter.

But there was always distance in their eyes, as if they were looking at a project rather than a person. Only my grandmother Martha saw me. Really saw me.

She lived in a beautiful old Victorian house in Cambridge, filled with books and antiques and the smell of cinnamon. I spent every summer with her from age 13 onward, after the adoption revelation. You have your mother’s eyes, she told me once, when I was 15.

It was the only acknowledgment from any family member that I had biological parents somewhere. Who was she? I asked. Grandmother Martha patted my hand.

Someone who loved you very much, but couldn’t keep you. Someday, when you’re older, I’ll tell you everything. But someday kept getting postponed.

Throughout college, whenever I asked, she’d say, after you graduate. After graduation, it was, when you’re settled in your career. Later, it became, when the time is right.

Meanwhile, my relationship with my parents deteriorated further. My father’s law firm represented my main competitor in a patent dispute. When I confronted him about the conflict of interest, he simply said, family is one thing, business is another.

Allison became a surgeon, following in our father’s footsteps, though he’d switched to corporate law long before we were born. Their shared medical background became yet another thing that excluded me from family conversations. The final estrangement happened three years ago, at Thanksgiving dinner.

Grandmother Martha was there, frilio than I remembered, but still sharp as ever. Conversation turned to my company’s recent success. We’d just secured major funding for an AI-powered medical diagnostic tool.

I always knew Rebecca would do something special, grandmother said proudly. Yes, well, she always was determined to prove herself, my mother replied with that familiar dismissive tone. Prove myself.

I echoed, is that what you think I’ve been doing all these years? Isn’t it? My father asked, sipping his wine. Most adopted children go through a phase of overachievement. It’s quite common, actually.

The casual confirmation of what they denied for 15 years stunned me into silence. Dad, Allison looked shocked. What are you saying? Oh, she knows, my mother waved dismissively.

She’s known since she was 12, though I don’t see why we need to discuss it at dinner. You’ve denied it my entire life, I said, my voice shaking. Every time I asked, you made me feel crazy for even suggesting it.

We thought it was better that way, my father replied, as if explaining something to a difficult client. Children need stability. I needed truth, I countered.

The truth is, my mother said with sudden sharpness, we gave you everything. A beautiful home, the best education, every advantage. Most adopted children would be grateful.

Grandmother Martha’s hand came down hard on the table. That’s enough, Margaret. But it wasn’t enough.

Twenty years of feeling like an outsider, of conditional love, of gaslit reality came pouring out. You never wanted me, I said. You wanted the idea of me.

The perfect daughter you could show off at parties. The one who would validate your parenting without ever demanding actual parenting from you. I stood up, napkin falling to the floor.

I’m done trying to earn love that should have been freely given. I left that night and didn’t look back. Changed my phone number, moved to a new apartment.

Grandmother Martha was the only one I stayed in touch with, meeting for our weekly Sunday brunches away from my parents’ house. They do love you, she insisted once. They just don’t know how to show it.

Love isn’t supposed to be this hard, I replied. She died six months ago, peacefully in her sleep. I was traveling for work and missed the funeral.

My parents didn’t bother to call me about it. I found out through an attorney’s letter, informing me that Grandmother Martha had left me her house and the majority of her estate. I never got to hear the truth about my birth parents from her lips.

But fate had other plans for revealing family secrets. The day of the accident started like any other Tuesday. I was at our company headquarters in Cambridge, running tests on our newest software update.

It was raining, that gentle, persistent New England drizzle that makes everything gray and slightly blurred at the edges. You should head home, Rebecca, my business partner Samantha suggested around 8. The update can wait until morning. But I’ve never been good at leaving things unfinished…