The official paperwork says I am, but that doesn’t matter to them. Andrea is their biological daughter while I’m not. A fact they never let me forget. When Andrea – pronounced on-dray-a because it sounds more pretentious. Sorry, elegant – was younger, she didn’t have a lot of friends. As in, any.
So, her parents, yes, I make the distinction, too, decided to buy her one.
I wish I was exaggerating.
That is how it was laid out to me when I was informed, at ten, that I was being adopted. Old enough to remember my life prior to them, and it was the stuff of dreams, yet still hopeful at that age that it would all work out.
My birth parents passed when I was nine and there were no relatives able, or willing, to take me. I was put in the system and remainder there for a year when Karen Trudeau, who was forced to volunteer – err kindly gave of her time to those less fortunate – saw me.
I’d been thankful for a second chance at happiness. Thrilled they didn’t seem to want to replace my dad and mom.
And then I was officially theirs and everything changed.
I could only address them as Ken and Karen. I was schooled on how to say Andrea’s name correctly. I was given the rules as to what toys of hers I could and couldn’t touch.
A list of chores was handed to me. I’d asked Andrea which were hers, not wanting to overstep my place, and she’d pointed them out.
Then she’d smiled and I’d assumed, wrongly, we’d be okay. That there’d be minor adjustments and we’d get through them. Until the next day when I’d noticed there was no checkmark next to hers. I didn’t want to risk her getting in trouble and had reminded her she needed to do them. Instead, I did because I was then informed, by her, that she wouldn’t be doing them. I would.
Thus began my servitude. Sorry. Foray into being a Trudeau, though my name was never officially changed. Which was fine with me. I didn’t feel like one of them. I was a Wilcox, a family that wanted me because they loved me.
Not because they loved their real kid.
Anyway, I digress.
More than likely, Karen is simply checking on the house.
Not me. Never me.
They say that I’m so mature, and always have been, they never had to worry about me.
I read between the lines. They didn’t want to and that provided their out. In hindsight, I might owe them for that.
I’m independent. Whereas, Andrea is not.
I excelled in school, earning me the spot of valedictorian. Andrea barely graduated. Though, according to them, that was my fault for not doing her homework because she had other things to do.
I was given a scholarship to college based on my grades.
Her parents provided Andrea with a free ride.
I spent my free time working to cover secondary expenses and essentials.
Andrea’s was used to party.
I graduated with honors in Information Technology and was recruited by a top company that I’m still employed by and am able to work from anywhere.
Andrea flunked out, though money covers a lot of things and she somehow earned enough extra credit to obtain a degree as well. In Fashion Design. I’m not downplaying that course, nor those who actually do the work to receive it. I saw some of the creations of her fellow students and was in awe at their talent. Andrea did neither the work nor did she have the talent. What she does have is a business the Trudeaus fronted the cash for that she ran into the ground.
I could go on, but I think you get the picture.
The three of them are a unit while I’m also there. Sort of.
Tuning back in to the live soap opera, I realize I’ve missed some and wish I could rewind to catch up. Thankfully, she seems to provide a recap. “So, what you’re saying is, I should skip out on the Jenkins’ family and go have fun with Justin.” It’s not a question, more of a statement. This lady has already decided to do it, she just wants confirmation of her friend’s plan. That way she won’t be judged for following through. Wrong. I’m judging.
“Yes. They sound like do-gooders anyway. Who takes on a stranger for the holidays? Besides, since you were volunteered, you bailing on them is not your fault. It’s theirs. You’re doing them a favor by not going, Aubrey Simcox.”
It takes me a second to realize she didn’t say Audrey Wilcox. It’s dang close, though. I mean, what are the odds at the similarities? It’s fate I tell you.