That word hit me like a physical punch.
“Get a paternity test,” I begged. “When the baby’s born, get a test. That’ll prove I’m telling the truth.”
“Oh, we will,” my father said, his voice laced with venom. “But in the meantime, you need to leave. Leave this house tonight. Pack a bag. I’ll give you $300, but that’s it. I won’t have you under the same roof as your sister after what you’ve done.”
I looked at my mother, desperate for her to defend me, to show even a sliver of belief.
She just kept crying, her face buried in her hands.
“Mom, please,” I whispered.
She didn’t look up.
I went upstairs, moving like I was walking through water. Everything felt surreal, like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.
I packed clothes, my laptop, a few photos.
From downstairs, I could hear Stephanie’s voice—shaky, traumatized—speaking to my parents.
She was good.
She was really good.
Before I left, I tried one last time.
“I’m telling the truth. I never touched her. I don’t know why she’s doing this, but I’m innocent.”
My father handed me an envelope with cash.
“Get out of my house.”
I left.
It was raining. I remember that detail so clearly. The cold rain soaking through my jacket as I walked down the driveway with my duffel bag.
Nowhere to go.
I called Jessica from a gas station pay phone.
“Hey, can I come over? Something happened.”
“I know what happened,” she said, her voice ice. “Stephanie called me. She told me everything.”
My blood ran cold.
“It’s not true. Whatever she said—”
“You got your sister pregnant, Marcus. Your f asterisk asterisking asterisk sister. I never want to see you again.”
She hung up.
I tried calling back. Blocked. I texted from the pay phone number.
No response.
That first night, I stayed at a dingy motel. Stained carpets, flickering TV. I counted my money.
$273.
School was impossible. The news spread like wildfire. By Monday morning, everyone knew. Whispers followed me.
Some confronted me directly. Jake Morrison, a teammate, shoved me into a locker.
“You’re a sick f asterisk asterisk or asterisk chen.”
I tried to explain, but nobody wanted to hear it. The rumor was too juicy, too scandalous.
The adopted kid who got his sister pregnant.
My basketball coach called me into his office.
“I’m sorry, Marcus, but we can’t have you on the team. It’s a distraction.”
I pleaded.
“Coach, I didn’t—”
He cut me off.
“It doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t do. The optics are bad.”
Jessica’s friends harassed me. Someone spray-painted pervert on my locker. Even the principal, calling me in for counseling, assumed I was guilty.
After 2 weeks, I stopped going to school.
What was the point?
I called my parents repeatedly, begging them to listen. They never picked up.
I drove by the house once and saw my dad putting my basketball trophies in a trash bag.
That’s when it truly sink in.
I was erased.