I Was Adopted to Be a Servant

I never liked talking about my childhood. Whenever someone asked if I had siblings, or what my family was like, I’d smile and keep it vague. My story has no fairy tale ending.

I was eight years old when they adopted me. I remember that day like it was yesterday. We arrived at a massive house, with a garden full of roses that looked straight out of a magazine. The lady hugged me in front of everyone, even the curious neighbors who had come to see the new child.

“You are our daughter now,” she whispered in my ear.

I cried with joy. Finally, I thought, I would have a family. Someone would love me.

That first night, I slept in a bed that felt like it belonged to a princess. Soft, clean sheets—something I’d never had before. I felt lucky, almost like I had been rescued.

But the illusion didn’t last.

The next morning, before the sun was fully up, she called me to the kitchen.

“Wash the dishes first, and then help dress Julian,” she said.

“And my things?” I asked, still half-asleep.

“Your things… we’ll see later. Julian comes first.”

At first, I told myself it was normal. All children help around the house, right? I told myself it was just a matter of adjusting. But soon, it became painfully clear: I wasn’t a daughter. I was a servant.

Julian, her biological son, had cerebral palsy. He couldn’t move on his own. At first, I liked helping him—feeding him, reading him stories, singing him to sleep. But the care soon became an endless series of chores.

“You need to lift him, you’re younger.”
“Give him a bath and change his clothes.”
“Do his physical therapy exercises, like the doctor said.”

Over and over. Every day.

As Julian grew, so did my responsibilities. I had no time to play, no time to study quietly. My life revolved around him.

When I was twelve, I finally asked the question that had been burning inside me:

“Why did you adopt me?”

She looked at me as if I had committed a crime.

“To make sure Julian isn’t alone,” she said. “You are his hands, his feet… his sister.”

“And me?” I stammered, a knot in my throat. “Who am I to you?”

A long silence followed. The man finally looked at me, his voice cold and dry.

“You are the help he needs.”

The floor seemed to vanish beneath me. That day, I understood everything. They had never adopted me to love me. I was never a daughter. I was a free caregiver disguised as a child.

The irony is that I loved Julian. He wasn’t to blame. He laughed at the stories I read, held my hand tightly when he was scared, and looked at me with pure tenderness. But them… I only remember their cold hugs, given for appearances when someone was watching.

At fifteen, the school offered me a scholarship. For the first time, someone saw potential in me. When I told them I wanted to accept, she exploded.

“And who will take care of Julian while you study?” she shouted.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I said, trembling. “I deserve a life too.”

Her response cut like a knife:

“Don’t be ungrateful. We ‘saved’ you.”

That “saved” still burns in my memory.

I left that house when I was seventeen. It was terrifying. I felt broken, alone, afraid that I would never be enough anywhere. But I would rather start over than remain invisible in a place where I was only wanted for what I did, not for who I was.

As an adult, I tell my story not for pity, but so no one confuses adoption with selfishness disguised as love. Adoption is giving a family—not recruiting a servant.

Because I was never the daughter they promised I would be.