Billionaire's Spoiled Contract Wife

Chapter 3

Taking in a child that’s not your own isn’t easy nor is it any easier that the child is black, damaged, and broken in more ways than one. But my parents never complained even when I used to throw temper tantrums blaming them for the death of my birth parents, nor when I started acting out, getting expelled from school, and raising hell wherever I went.

I was only seven when my birth parents died in that four-way car collision living only me in our car alive. Remembered it like it was yesterday, coming back from a road trip I begged them to take as our coming back family vacation. Because they knew I was terrified of airplanes and would throw a fit to get back on one they agreed to the road trip coming back from Florida.

It was all fun and games that day till we got to Michigan. The chilling January weather froze more than the trees that year, it froze the roads leaving a car to spiral out of control crashing into ours. My mom was the first to die, soon as the car slammed into her side her neck snapped. Didn’t help that she was turned around to fix my blanket, eyes locked into mine as her life was instantly snatched away.

Dad soon followed after the crash and sent our car into another, crashing on his side. By the time the third car crashed into the back of ours, my parents were dead. Leaving me in the back seat crushed and lifeless. More than the accident, I think the shock is what almost took me. I wish it did.

I was in an induced coma for six months after that. Growing up I found out that, it’s not that I couldn’t wake up after the first month, it’s that I didn’t want to. But something about the Smith’s constant visits and outpour of love got me awake. Three years of none stop surgery, physical therapy, and speech therapy followed, but they were there and paid for every visit and procedure.

By that time, the adoption papers were already filed and completed. I was no longer a Monroe, but a Smith. The adopted daughter of the Smith family. The wretched little witch that ruined it all.

I despise them and love them at the same time. It wasn’t their fault that my parents died, wasn’t their fault that they happened to be at that same intersection and ended up in the crash way after my parents died, but I blamed them the same. I blamed them and myself. I blamed myself more. They died and I didn’t. If it wasn’t for my stupid fear, we would have never been on that road and never had been in that car.

But my fears lead them to their deaths, and I survived. A few of my therapists called it survivors’ guilt, looking back now, they’re probably right. I’ll always feel guilty that I survived, and they didn’t. No matter the amount of liquor, drugs, and partying, that guilt will never go away. The pain that is housed in my heart never seems to dissipate, if anything it only festers and grows.

I’ve been holding on to that guilt and pain like a crutch for as long as I can remember. Even when my new family became constant, the guilt and pain became home. I always expected them to give up on me and leave but I knew my guilt and pain would never abandon me. No matter how much I wished it did, it never left.

Now, I’m forced to decide; deal with my pain and guilt or lose my life, that’s if I don’t lose my family first. For the first time since I was adopted the Smith family isn’t taking it easy on me. I can’t blame them. Their whole life changed since they brought me home and it kept changing.

From having one spoiled rotten daughter, they ended up with two, and the second was a nightmare. They had to deal with the criticism of having a non-Caucasian child. Nonetheless, one who was the evidence of the accident that caused my now dad to retire due to a messed-up leg and knee. Many people told them that they had nothing to be guilty about, at least not enough to adopt me. Cause just like I suffered losses, so did they.

The Smiths never made me feel like my losses equaled theirs, even after it was revealed that mom had a miscarriage in that accident. They always said that God knew I needed them more. That we needed each other more. I needed them to heal, and they needed me to grow.

Having me in their lives changed their view of the world. It wasn’t the simple cookie-cutter image they had come to believe nor accepted. Race was never a thing for them till I came around, at least not one that hit home. To them, we were all humans and deserved to be treated equally.

To keep me, they lost their planned out careers, friends, and even family members. To make me comfortable they got out of their comfort zone. Researching and finding help outside of their race and neighborhood on how to care for a child whose hair is too thick to simply brush or use a curling iron on and whose skin breaks out from using the same skin products like them.

If that wasn’t hard, they had to deal with the constant remarks of ignorant folks at every corner. There have been way too many occasions where the overly preppy cheerleader and star quarterback lost all their common sense and almost ended up in jail for the sake of their daughter’s name and honor. Even when they knew I was a drunk and an addict, they never stopped fighting for me. No matter what I did or said they held on and fought tooth and nail to make the world and I know that I was their daughter and that they loved me regardless of my differences or my stupid decisions.

However, I haven't been able to fully accept any of it. I know it's wrong of me. I should be grateful, and be a dutiful daughter that will make them proud and happy with their decisions. I don't know why but I can't. I'm broken and damaged. I'm self-aware enough to admit that. This is also why I know that I need to find a silver lining within myself. Some hidden anchor that keeps me afloat long enough to know how it feels to not constantly be drowning.