Chapter 1: A Crooked Childhood

My adoptive dad is a villain, and my adoptive mom is a notorious supporting character.

To keep me from getting pushed around, they taught me every trick they knew.

I took the best, ditched the rest, and blazed my own crooked, unstoppable path all the way to college—boots thudding down the marble halls, rainbow hair trailing trouble behind me.

That is, until the golden boy and golden girl of the story reunited with their long-lost family—and caught sight of me, hair dyed in a riot of colors, pinning down a bleach-blond kid and smacking him left and right.

"So, do you want to be my boyfriend, or do you want to regret ever meeting me?"

The golden girl nearly fainted. "My sweet, soft, precious daughter—!"

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Since I was little, my parents drilled one thing into me: there are two people in this world I absolutely have to take down.

So, while other kids snuggled in their parents’ arms watching Sesame Street, I was in the basement learning how to twist someone’s arm behind their back.

Even the chill of the cement floor couldn’t distract me. My mom set up a little boombox in the corner, so the beat of old-school hip-hop mixed with the sound of snapping wrists—my kind of lullaby.

My childhood had no dolls—just sparring, taekwondo, boxing, archery…

The gear cluttered our basement: gloves, targets, mats, a pile of trophies I never cared about. There was a dent in the drywall from when I missed a roundhouse kick—my dad never bothered to patch it, said it built character.

My adoptive dad said, "Mercy to your enemy is cruelty to yourself."

He’d say it like a coach before a big game, his hands on my shoulders, making sure I looked him dead in the eye.

When I was three, my adoptive mom found me in the trunk of a car.

I remember the smell of old rubber and the taste of fear on my tongue—then the blinding sunlight as the trunk popped open.

That day, her Tesla got rear-ended.

A regular Monday gone sideways. She’d just picked up her oat milk latte when the world’s worst driver—a local thug in a cheap tracksuit—decided to cut her off and then slam on the brakes.

The other guy was a local thug. Even though he’d cut her off, he got out and started cussing her out, demanding ten grand in cash.

He reeked of cigarettes and cheap cologne, waving his phone like he was ready to livestream the whole thing. She didn’t even blink—just leaned against her car, sipping her coffee, looking him up and down like he was an off-brand purse at a yard sale.

She laughed in his face.

The kind of laugh that says: you have no idea who you’re messing with.

She called over my adoptive dad, who promptly twisted the guy’s arm and popped his shoulder out of its socket, as easily as fixing a jammed door.

He never even put down his Wall Street Journal. Just a quick snap, and the dude hit the ground like he’d seen the face of God.

The man collapsed like a sack of potatoes, passing out from the pain.

His phone went skittering into the gutter. Somewhere, a crow cawed. My parents exchanged a look like, "Not again."

My adoptive dad shook the blood off his hand and turned to leave—until a faint cry came from the trunk.

Inside was a chubby little girl curled up.

That was me.

My adoptive dad stared at me for two seconds, his brows furrowed so tightly you could crack a walnut on them.

His watch beeped—reminder to buy milk. He looked at me like I might be another expense.

He hadn’t planned to bother with me.

But my adoptive mom picked me up right away.

She said, "All those women on my Facebook are always showing off their daughters. If I had a daughter, she’d definitely be cuter than theirs."

So she brought me home.

And she was right.

When her country club friends saw me, their eyes all lit up.

They’d sneak glances, the kind of look that says, "Oh, she’s adorable—where’d you get her?" as if I were a designer handbag.

Until one day, a clueless rich lady brought her son over to visit.

That brat waited until the adults weren’t looking, then suddenly leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

The kid wore loafers and a smug grin. He thought he could get away with anything. Turns out, he was wrong.

My adoptive mom’s smile froze instantly.

A glacial freeze, like the thermostat got stuck on arctic.

That night, she personally taught me a lesson.

"If some punk ever tries that again, you aim for the eyeballs, got it? Forks work just fine."

She made me practice on a spaghetti squash, even handed me a plastic fork first—safety first, but message received.

My adoptive dad added, "And don’t spare their hands or feet either."

He ruffled my hair, but his eyes were dead serious. I never doubted him.

The next day, that family never came around again.

Rumor was, they moved to Connecticut. My mom made sure to unfollow them everywhere.

And from then on, my adoptive mom blocked all the kid-bragging maniacs from her Facebook.

She started posting dog memes instead. Less drama, more likes.

When I was little, I was especially hard to raise.

I was a picky eater, cried all the time, got sick at the drop of a hat—a fragile little flower.

You’d think I was auditioning for America’s Most Dramatic Toddler.

At dinner, I’d sit at the table, arms crossed, staring down a plate of broccoli like it was radioactive. Mom would sigh, threaten, then slide a bribe—one gummy bear per bite.

My adoptive mom was so exasperated, she scolded me daily: "If you don’t eat, I’ll let you starve!"

She’d threaten, then panic-Google “how to sneak veggies into mac and cheese.”

"What are you crying for? Cry again and I’ll toss you out!"

Then she’d turn around and frantically call up chefs.

"Candy apples? What’s that? Will kids get sick if they eat it?"

She once ordered a dozen from a Brooklyn food truck, just to test them herself first.

"Cotton candy—ugh, so childish... never mind, buy one for me to try too."

She ended up with pink sugar on her nose and a secret stash in her closet.

"Chocolate? No way, dogs can’t eat chocolate—what? People can? Well, buy a box and let’s see."

She made me taste-test every single truffle, pretending it was for science.

My adoptive dad was even more extreme.

He couldn’t stand to see me cry. The moment I started, he’d pull out a steak knife and scowl, "Cry again and I’ll chop you up!"

But before my tears were even dry, he’d get so scared he’d fling the knife out the window.

We’d find knives in the rose bushes for months. My mom started buying in bulk from Amazon.

After that, even butter knives were banned at home, and all the table corners were padded, just in case I got hurt.

Our house looked like a toddler-proofed war zone. Even the Roomba had safety bumpers.

One day, he discovered by accident that lifting me high up stopped my crying.

So every night when he came home, the first thing he’d do was wash his hands, change his shirt, and then hoist me onto his shoulders to run laps around the house.

Up on his shoulders, the world shrank. I could smell his aftershave and the faint sweat from his run—safe, dizzy, untouchable.

He’d gallop past the kitchen while my mom yelled, "No running in the house!" Then she’d film us and upload it to her Instagram story with a million heart emojis.

A 6’3” cold-faced CEO, with a three-year-old perched on his neck, even making horse noises: "Giddy up! Giddy up! Faster!"

Neighbors walking their dogs would stop and stare through the bay window. He never cared.

My adoptive mom rolled her eyes from the sofa. "You’re nuts."

She said it with a smile, like she wouldn’t have it any other way.

But soon, she joined in, too.

She bought matching cowboy hats for all three of us. I wore mine to bed.