The moment Olivia stood up, my body went cold. Her accusatory finger jabbed in my direction as the room spun around me. I'd been here before—this exact moment of public humiliation, different stage but same script.
The memory hit me with crushing force.
I was twelve years old, standing on the stage at Redmoon Middle School. The spelling bee championship had just ended with me clutching the first-place trophy, shocked by my own victory. My adoptive father, Dominic, beamed from the front row. He knew how hard I'd worked despite my dyslexia—the countless hours practicing, the tears shed over jumbled letters that refused to stay in place.
"And now, our champion will deliver a short speech," the principal announced.
My hands trembled as I unfolded the paper Dominic had helped me prepare. We'd practiced for days—a speech written in large, specially formatted text I could manage. But as I opened it, my stomach dropped.
This wasn't my speech.
