Being adopted as a child, 10 years later I pretended to be a maid to return to take revenge on my stepmother, but was bitterly humiliated when I discovered my father’s shocking secret…
When I was 6 years old, my mother died. When I was 7 years old, my father remarried. And when I was 8 years old, I was put up for adoption.

My stepmother, Sita, always called me “a child of bad luck”, “a worthless thing like your mother”. My father – Raghav, who used to carry me on his shoulders throughout the Kerala village – stood silently, watching me drag a torn suitcase with a stranger to the “adoptive home”.

I grew up in tears and hatred. From a timid child, I trained myself to be someone who knew how to wait for the right time.

10 years later.

I returned to the old house, but with a different name, a different appearance, a different voice. I pretended to be a young maid, newly introduced to the house, after my stepmother fired the old one for “talking too much”.

The house hadn’t changed much: the garden was still shaded by mango trees, but my stepmother’s golden altar had been replaced with fake jewelry, and a row of hidden rooms that my father wouldn’t let anyone enter remained the same.

I worked hard, enduring every command, every contemptuous look from my stepmother. I waited for the moment to reveal everything, with evidence of her lies, abuse, and hidden secrets, to bring her down to the bottom of society.

But then, I discovered something strange: every night, Raghav sneaked into the room at the end of the hallway – where no one was allowed to enter. The next morning, on the second-floor balcony, there was always a lace nightgown – the kind only young girls wear.

My stepmother was sharp and controlling. There was no way she would let this happen without knowing. Or… she deliberately ignored it, out of fear.

One night, I climbed up to the opposite balcony and looked through the curtains.

I was stunned.

My father – who I used to think was shy and indifferent – ​​was… hugging a very young girl, maybe even younger than me. They were affectionate and intimate, and the girl called him “Anh”.

She was an intern at my father’s company, living in the house under the name of “personal assistant”, but in fact she was a secret lover who was discreetly protected in her own house.

My stepmother knew, but kept quiet – if we divorced, she would leave empty-handed. And I – the abandoned biological child – was mopping the floor under the feet of my “nameless stepsister” who was only the age of a student.

One morning, my stepmother scolded me for dropping and breaking a glass. I calmly stood up, took off my mask, and looked straight at her:

“Don’t you remember me? I’m your husband’s biological daughter.”

Her face turned pale. My father ran out when he heard the noise. I pulled out from my pocket a photo of him and the girl at night from the balcony.

The house fell silent.

I sneered, turned around and was about to leave – thinking that the revenge was enough. But my father said something that made me freeze:

“Do you think you’re the first one to discover it? Your mother was like that in the past… but she couldn’t take it. And she chose to die.”

I turned around, his eyes were deep:

“Dad is not a good person. But at least, he never pretended to be a good father.”

I left the house with my old backpack. No need to show off, no need to put anyone down.

A week later, my stepmother sent a message:

“If you want, I can tell you what happened between my biological mother and him in the past. There are things you need to know before you resent.”

I looked at the screen, my hands shaking… For the first time, I realized: maybe I don’t understand the whole truth. And revenge is sometimes just a mask that hides a deeper truth.