Page 12 of The Charlie Method

CHARLOTTE

My inner critic is such a belligerent bitch

IWAS SIX YEARS OLD WHENIFIRST REALIZED WHAT IT“MEANT”TO BEadopted. It dawned on me during a playground argument with another girl in my class. Stacey. Goddamn Stacey. I don’t remember how it started, but it was the most asinine fight, each of us arguing that our parents would buy us anything we wanted. Which was an absurd sentiment because I was in no way a spoiled child.

Stacey bragged thatherparents would go buy her ice cream in a blizzard if she asked. After I gave an equally ridiculous comeback, she argued, “Yours wouldneverdo that.”

And then, with a smirk, she threw out the careless remark that shattered my world.

“You’re not even their real daughter.”

Her words were like tiny daggers into my heart. I’d known I was adopted since I was old enough to ask why I looked more like my friend Daisy Jeong and her parents rather than my own family. But I don’t think I ever truly grasped the concept, not until that fight with Stacey.

I ran away, tears streaming down my face. I was so upset that the teachers had to call my parents to come pick me up. It was Dad who drew the short straw of leaving work in the middle of the day. I refused to tell him what was wrong, refused to let him console me. But later that night, when he was tucking me into bed, I burst into tears, finally breaking down and confessing what Stacey had said. Mom came rushing into my room, and the two of them proceeded to comfort me and explain that just because we weren’t related by blood didn’t mean I wasn’t their real daughter.

But their words couldn’t erase the terror that had taken root in my heart.

What if they decide they don’t want me anymore?

I tried to bury those fears, but growing up, they always found a way to resurface. Every time I misbehaved, every time I brought home a bad grade, a voice inside me whispered that they might send me back. I began to watch their every move, analyzing their words and actions, searching for signs that their love for me was conditional.

Now, I’m twenty-one, turning twenty-two next summer, and for the most part, those fears have vanished. It’s been a very long time since I looked at the family photos lining our mantel and questioned if I truly belong in them.

But it’s times like these, when we’re going around the dining room table and everyone lists one goal they’ve set or an accomplishment they’re proud of this month, that I wish the people who adopted me weren’t so fucking perfect.

I love them dearly, but my entire family is a bunch of overachievers.

Mom can whip up a soufflé from scratch and has a PhD in mathematics. She doesn’t make people call herdoctor, though. She’s not that pompous.

Dad runs his own multimillion-dollar cybersecurity firm from his upstairs office.

Ava, who’s four years older than me, landed her dream job right out of college, with a salary so high she can afford to live in a two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan instead of a roach-infested studio.

Oliver, six years older, is on track to become the youngest partner at the firm where he practices family law.

They’re nauseatingly successful and well-adjusted, every last one of them. Even Katherine, Oliver’s wife, fits that mold. Kat works for an organization that fights child trafficking and reunites survivors with their parents. Oliver literally chose to marry the one person who’s even more perfect than he is.

“That’s fantastic news.” Mom is beaming at Ava, who just shared the news that she’s in line for a promotion. Because of course she is. “I’m so proud of you, honey.”

“What about you, peanut?” Smiling at me, Dad slices off a piece of apple crumble using the side of his fork. “Any accomplishment or met goal?”

“I got an A on my last bio test.”

The answer feels like a cop-out.

But what else am I going to say? I accomplished a car hookup with a wide receiver?

Dad would probably choke on his dessert. He’d be all right, though, since everyone in my family is trained in life-saving techniques, including the Heimlich maneuver. It was Mom’s idea to take a family CPR and rescue skills class one summer—for fun. Her idea of fun differs greatly from mine.

You can always tell them you accomplished sending a DNA sample to a genealogy site.

Ugh. My inner critic issucha belligerent bitch.

Fine. Fine, okay? I suppose this is a solid opening. Segue from accomplishments to an exciting new development in my life.

Guess what! I’m looking for myrealfamily!

Oh my God. What if they take it that way? I don’t want them to think I’m ungrateful or like they’re not enough for me.

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