“I Was Adopted to Be Their Servant”

They were yelling again from the living room.

— “Lucia! Where’s my coffee? I told you I wanted it ten minutes ago!”

I ran from the kitchen with the steaming cup, hands trembling, trying not to spill a drop. Mrs. Mendez didn’t even glance up from her magazine when I set it on the table.

— “It’s warm,” he said with disdain. “Throw it away. Make a new one.”

I was eleven when I came to this house. I remember that day clearly. Mrs. Mendez smiled at the orphanage director, Sofia, claiming she had always wanted a daughter. I had imagined birthdays, bedtime hugs, someone asking how my day at school went.

How naive I was.

The first day, they showed me my “room”: a tiny windowless utility space behind the kitchen. That same afternoon, I was handed an apron.

— “Here you’ll earn your place,” Mr. Mendez said. “Nothing is free in this life.”

Two years passed. Two long years of waking at six every morning to cook, clean, wash, and iron. I went to school only because the law required it, exhausted, homework often unfinished. Their biological daughter, Daniela, watched me with mockery while I scrubbed her room.

— “Your uniform is wrinkled,” Mr. Mendez barked. “Better iron it properly, or I’ll tell your mom.”

Mr. Mendez ignored me entirely, as if I were just another piece of furniture.

One night, after being yelled at for “salty” dinner, I sat on the floor of my tiny room and cried. I thought of Director Sofia, of her kind eyes, the way she always asked if we were okay. I made a decision.

Waited until everyone slept. I packed my few belongings into a backpack and left. I walked the dark streets for almost an hour, legs trembling from fear and hope alike.

I rang the orphanage bell. It was nearly eleven at night.

Director Sofia opened the door, hair loose, robe slightly disheveled, eyes wide with surprise.

— “Lucia? But… what are you doing here at this hour? Are you okay?”

I collapsed in tears, letting all the sorrow of two years pour out.

— “Please… I can’t go back there. Headmistress, please…”

She led me into her office, made me hot chocolate with her own hands, and listened. I told her everything: waking before dawn, enduring insults, going to school hungry, showing her my cracked hands from the cleaning products.

Her face changed. I saw a mix of contained rage and deep sadness I’d never seen before.

— “I should have supervised better,” she whispered. “I should have visited more. Done more…”

— “It’s not your fault,” I said softly.

That night, she called the police and social services. Two hours later, the Mendezes arrived, furious, demanding their “adopted daughter” back.

— “She’s ungrateful!” Mrs. Mendez yelled. “We took her out of the orphanage, and this is how she repays us!”

Director Sofia, small but unyielding, stood her ground.

— “You didn’t adopt her to be her daughter. You adopted her to make her work. That’s a crime. We have statements. She will never be alone with you again.”

The social worker photographed my windowless room, examined my hands, and documented everything. The adoption was canceled.

I returned to the orphanage. I resolved to stay until I turned eighteen, content that at least I would be treated like a child.

Three months later, Director Sofia called me into her office.

— “Lucia, I need to talk to you about something important,” she said nervously, a look I’d never seen before. “I’ve been thinking a lot these past months. I’ve run this orphanage for twenty years… I’ve seen hundreds of children. I never wanted to adopt because I didn’t think I could be fair. I couldn’t choose one over the others…”

My heart raced.

— “But when I saw you return that night, when I saw what they had done to you, I realized… sometimes life chooses you. I didn’t bring you back to put you back into the system. I brought you back because…” Her eyes filled with tears. “…because I want you to be my daughter. My real daughter. If you want, of course.”

I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, tears streaming down my face.

She hugged me like no one ever had.

— “Welcome home, baby girl. Welcome to your real home.”

Today, I am seventeen. I live with Mama Sofia in a modest apartment filled with light. She attends my volleyball games, helps me with chores, makes me breakfast, and has never once punished me by making me “earn” her love.

Sometimes, I still wake from nightmares about the Mendezes. But then I hear Mama Sofia humming in the kitchen, and I remember: not all endings are sad. Some of us do find home. Sometimes it just takes longer than we’d like.