I grew up in a broken home—an abusive father, a mother who left, and a sister,

Cheryl, who I once trusted. At 18, I escaped and built a life far away,

leaving the past behind. Then, after a decade, Cheryl emailed me. She said

her son was sick and begged for money. Moved by the photo of my nephew,

I sent it without hesitation. But Cheryl never responded,

I returned to my hometown, hoping to find answers, but there was no sign

of the child. Instead, I found Cheryl and our father, mysteriously close again. An old classmate, John,

told me Cheryl had spread rumors that I was delusional, claiming I’d

imagined everything and was once hospitalized. I showed John the email,

but he walked away, unwilling to get involved. Now back in San Francisco,

I’m left questioning it all. Was I manipulated again by the people I once trusted?

Probably. The hardest truth is that sometimes the worst betrayals come from those who share your blood.