When the rich couple came to the orphanage, they were torn between Grace and me.
The usual comments rolled by in my mind, like a ticker tape:
[Grace is about to pull her innocent act again to get adopted.]
[Even if they choose her, she’ll eventually get sent back.]
[She’ll always be unwanted, forever trying too hard.]
I lowered my gaze quietly, knowing they were talking about me.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over me.
I looked up to see a friendly Midwestern couple smiling warmly down at me.
“Well, look at her, Dan,” the woman said cheerfully. “Isn’t she just the sweetest thing?”
“Absolutely, Sue,” the man replied, eyes crinkling kindly. “Hey, sweetheart, we’re making some hearty beef stew and biscuits tonight. How’d you like to come home and have dinner with us?”
Two cars pulled up—one was a shiny new Mercedes, the other an older but lovingly kept Ford Explorer.
The wealthy Harringtons glanced between Grace and me, visibly conflicted.
Both of us were suitable in different ways. She was sweeter, I was prettier. But we each had our flaws—one not pretty enough, the other supposedly not kind enough.
After a moment’s hesitation, the Harringtons turned toward me.
Again, the comments scrolled through my thoughts:
[Are they blind? Ignoring sweet Grace just because the other girl is prettier?]
[It doesn’t matter—whoever takes her will send her back anyway.]
[All part of the plan to highlight Grace’s goodness later. Just wait.]
Before they reached me, I turned quickly and buried myself in Sue Walker’s soft cardigan, smelling faintly of laundry soap and lavender.
I’d seen these imaginary comments since I was very young.
Life at the orphanage meant fighting for limited supplies, and Grace and I competed from the start.
Whenever I managed to snag a new notebook or sweater, the nasty comments appeared, accusing me of being greedy and ruthless.
“She’s only seven and already so selfish. No wonder she’ll grow up hated.”
Back then, I didn’t understand what was wrong about trying to make life a little better for myself.
As I got older, I realized my role was simply to make Grace look good. My flaws, my greed, were there to highlight her kindness and resilience.
I was the villain, destined to become bitter after countless failures.
But this time, I refused to play that role again.
When I climbed into the Walker’s old SUV, I saw Grace’s relief and the spiteful messages:
[She’s so dumb—trading a life of luxury for some beef stew and biscuits.]
[She’ll never rise above her station now. Grace will live like a princess, and Hope will stay unwanted.]
Was it true? Would they send me back too?
Dan caught my eye through the rearview mirror and flashed a reassuring smile.
“Don’t be shy, hon. You’re family now. Sue teaches fourth grade, and I’m a cop. Good, honest work. You can trust us.”
Sue turned warmly, “Your file said ‘Hope’ as your nickname. What’s your full name, dear?”
I hesitated, my fingers twisting nervously. The comments whispered my fate was sealed.
“I don’t have one. It’s just Hope.”
The beef stew smelled amazing the moment we entered their cozy home.
I sat stiffly at the kitchen table, recalling the orphanage director’s warning: “Mind your manners. Don’t eat too much.”
Though I was starving, I took tiny bites.
Dan and Sue piled my plate high, encouraging me to eat heartily.
“Try the mushrooms, Hope. Fresh from the farmer’s market, real tasty,” Dan urged.
Sue nudged me gently, “You need to eat more, honey. You’re all skin and bones. Here, take some extra biscuits. They’re homemade.”
Seeing my hesitation, Dan looked concerned. “Not your taste? I could whip something else up if you like.”
“Oh, Dan,” Sue sighed, rolling her eyes playfully. “I told you to cook something simpler. Maybe she doesn’t like stew?”
Panic rose—I didn’t want them thinking I disliked the meal. Quickly, I lifted my bowl, digging in enthusiastically.
“No! It’s perfect. It’s really delicious.”
And it was.
I’d grown used to cheap cafeteria meals—greasy pasta or watered-down soups. But here was something different. It felt like home.
I surprised myself wanting more than just a meal—I wanted to stay here forever.
The Walkers were wonderful.
After dinner, they took me shopping for new clothes and essentials, returning home late.
In my new pajamas, I curled up in the corner of the soft bed. At the orphanage, we shared cramped bunks, and I’d learned to sleep tightly curled.
Half asleep, I heard soft footsteps enter my room.
“Dan, do you think those nasty comments we saw were real or were we imagining things?” Sue whispered worriedly.
“One person might imagine it, but both of us? Probably not,” Dan murmured softly.
“It’s awful what they said. She’s just a child.”
“She’ll be fine as long as we show her love,” Dan reassured her. “I already adore her like our own. Nobody will hurt her again.”
Barely awake, I felt them gently tuck me in the middle of the bed, soft blankets wrapped around me.
For the first time, I had plenty of room, and no one pushed or squeezed me. This was the best night’s sleep I’d ever had.
People say loving someone is like tending flowers. Dan and Sue Walker seemed to think loving someone was more like feeding a pig.
Midwestern portions are huge, hearty, and incredibly filling. I started off eating just half a bowl of mashed potatoes and gravy, trying to stay polite. Now, I easily polished off two full plates.
The orphanage director had warned me not to eat too much at others’ homes. The comments kept popping into my mind:
[Is she a pig reincarnated? She’s eating like she’s never seen food before.]
[Glad Grace ended up with the Harringtons—now she’s enjoying Michelin-starred meals daily. That’s a real princess life!]
[Guess she was starving in the orphanage, so she eats like there’s no tomorrow. They’ll get tired of her pretty soon.]
Before, whenever I saw these comments comparing me to Grace, I felt envy. I envied her easy life, her effortless happiness. But this time, it didn’t bother me at all.
Dan’s cooking was delicious. Every time he watched me clear my plate, his smile was bright and genuine.
Sue was wonderful too. She rarely cooked but once attempted making smoked sausages, only to end up with something so salty we gulped water by the gallon. Dan came home from work, laughed heartily, then whipped up a quick dinner, playfully banning Sue from cooking again.
Sue laughed sheepishly and promised to stay out of the kitchen. Whenever Dan was busy, she took me out to local diners and restaurants. I discovered foods I’d never imagined—juicy burgers, barbecue ribs, buttery corn on the cob, and rich mac and cheese.
Sue always ordered more than we could eat, saying, “Our girl should try everything other kids enjoy.”
I ate, tasting tears that slid silently down my cheeks.
This, I realized, is what love feels like—every meal shared together.
As school approached, Dan and Sue seriously asked what kind of name I’d like.
They said choosing my own name was important—it represented my life and identity. They even let me decide on my surname.
“Anything but Rufus ‘Ironbull’ Harp,” Dan joked, chuckling.
Sue rolled her eyes playfully. “Dan, behave! Our girl has much better taste.”
Dan often teased Sue like this, receiving playful punches in return. Their warmth and laughter made even someone like me smile.
Looking at these two wonderful people who had pulled me from darkness, I softly spoke:
“I’ve decided. I want to be Hope Walker. It just feels right.”
They paused in surprise, then burst into joyful smiles.
“Perfect!” Sue beamed.
“Hope Walker—sounds beautiful! We’ll handle the paperwork tomorrow,” Dan promised happily.
In middle school, I occasionally saw comments updating me about Grace’s life. Adopted by the wealthy Harringtons, Grace now enjoyed a life of luxury—languages, music lessons, etiquette training.
Comments mocked my humble upbringing, predicting I’d remain stuck at the bottom.
But they were wrong.
My parents didn’t enroll me in pricey classes, but they taught me so much more. Dan taught me honesty, integrity, and even basic self-defense. Sue nurtured my education, encouraging me to dream big and use knowledge meaningfully.
Gradually, I learned to resist negative impulses. I realized I no longer had to compete desperately.
One day in eighth grade, our class collected funds for an event. My desk partner, Jason Bennett, carelessly stashed the cash in his drawer.
“Careful,” I warned him, glancing at the thick stack of bills. “That’s a lot of money. Someone could take it.”
Jason brushed it off, heading out to play basketball.
The comments appeared instantly:
[I remember she stole a necklace in the original story—bet she takes the money now.]
[A thief once, a thief always. No necklace? She’ll steal class funds instead.]
I scoffed, finding their assumptions ridiculous.
Yet suddenly, my hand seemed to move on its own, creeping toward Jason’s drawer.
“The money’s gone!” Jason shouted, frantic after returning to class.
Everyone turned to him. I had just stepped in after asking a teacher a question.
“Hope!” he accused immediately. “You’re the only one who knew the money was there. You took it, didn’t you?”
I frowned, annoyed. “Are you crazy? I didn’t take it.”
“It has to be you! You warned me it might be stolen. You were planning it all along!”
He angrily tore through my bag and desk, scattering my things. But he found nothing.
He burst into tears, panic rising. “Please just give it back! My mom will kill me if she finds out.”
“That’s your problem, not mine,” I retorted.
Jason lunged forward, grabbing at me desperately. We tussled, and thanks to Dan’s training, I held my ground. Jason ended up with a bloody nose.
When our teacher arrived, Jason cried dramatically, blaming me for stealing and hitting him.
The teacher stared coldly. “Hope, either hand over the money or call your parents.”
When Dan Walker hurried into school, the comments seemed ecstatic:
[Finally showing his true colors! No parent can tolerate a thief for a child.]
[Welcome back to the orphanage, Hope!]
I lowered my head, hiding in the farthest corner of the principal’s office. When I saw Dan’s tall, solid figure approaching, I awkwardly tried to hide my bruised knuckles.
“Are you Hope’s father? What kind of upbringing is this? Your daughter beat up our son! What kind of girl behaves like this?” Mrs. Bennett shrieked, pointing aggressively at Dan from the moment he arrived.
Dan remained unusually quiet, his expression stern as he walked toward me. I had caused so much trouble and now dragged him into this mess. He must despise me.
Yet, as he came closer, I squared my shoulders defiantly and looked up.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said firmly, rehearsing this moment a thousand times. Even if the comments were right, even if I was going to be sent back, I refused to look pitiful.
But when our eyes met, my carefully built wall crumbled instantly. Tears burst out uncontrollably.
“I’m sorry,” I sobbed. “I won’t fight again. I didn’t steal the money. I know doing something wrong would hurt you and Sue, so I didn’t do it. Please…don’t send me away.”
[Does she really think a foster dad would care that much about her?]
[I love seeing mean girls get what they deserve!]
[Looks like someone’s losing everything again.]
Reading the cruel words scrolling by, I choked back tears and reached out, hoping to grasp his sleeve.
But Dan turned suddenly, shielding me protectively behind him.
“Hope is my daughter, and I trust her completely. She’s no thief!” His voice was steady and powerful, making me tremble in awe.
“On the other hand,” he continued sharply, “You adults are disgraceful. Accusing a child without evidence, bullying someone else’s kid—shame on you!”
Dan’s authoritative presence filled the room, silencing the Bennetts who had been loudly berating me moments ago.
The teacher hesitated, softening her tone. “Mr. Walker, we just want to clarify things. It’s a misunderstanding.”
Dan sat down next to me calmly. “Then let’s clarify. You’re Jason Bennett, correct? Age?”
Jason stammered, “Fourteen.”
“What proof do you have that Hope took your money?” Dan demanded.
“None, but she knew where the money was and warned me it could get stolen. Right after, the money disappeared. Who else could it be?” Jason argued weakly.
“So, you carelessly left the cash unsecured, and when Hope warned you, you accused her instead of taking responsibility?” Dan’s voice was firm and unyielding.
Jason fumbled, unable to respond.
“My daughter was in the teacher’s office asking questions when the money disappeared. How exactly could she steal it? You neglected your responsibility and blamed an innocent classmate for your own mistake.”
Cornered, Jason blurted out angrily, “But she’s an orphan! Everyone knows orphans aren’t trustworthy—why else would their parents abandon them?”
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