(Age 17) Harry:
“How come there aren’t any pictures of me as a baby?” you asked your mother, flipping through the plastic pages of the family photo album, searching for even a single photograph of yourself.
“Huh. I must have just forgotten to take some of you, sweetie.” She replied, pausing for only a moment before continuing to flit around the living room as she dusted off tables and placed misplaced items where they belonged.
In that moment, you knew she was hiding something. After all, your mother could never forget something like that, she was always chasing around your siblings with cameras, trying to take photos and film milestones.
“Am I adopted?” you asked suddenly, breaking the thick silence.
Your mother straightened up slowly, looking into your eyes, “Y/N, why don’t we sit down for a moment and talk?” she suggested.
“I am, aren’t I?” you whispered, eyes wide as you discovered the truth that she had worked so hard to hide from you.
“Y/N…” Your mother sighed, patting the space beside her on the couch.
You shook your head, before standing up and running up the stairs, into your room, the photo album left deserted on the living room floor. Tears rushed down your face as you slammed the door, locked it, and fell onto your bed.
Why would your mother keep that from you? Didn’t she know it was important to you? That you knew who your parents were?
That you knew who you were?
(Age 13) Liam:
You slammed the door as you stormed into the house, annoyed. Today had been one of the worst days of your life - but then again, everything seemed horrible when it was ‘that time of the month’.
And, to make matters worse, your brother had his idiot friends over, and you knew that they just loved to agitate you, seeing how far they could go before you exploded.
Today, they weren’t going to get very far.
“Y/N?” your brother called, “Is that you?”
“If I say no, will you leave me alone?” you sigh, throwing your bag on the floor.
“Then, yes, it is me.” you announce, your feet shuffling across the wooden floors as you entered the living room.
Niall patted a space beside him on the couch, but you instead sat beside your brother, hoping that it would mean his friends wouldn’t bother you so much.
“So, we were having an interesting discussion before you came home.” Harry smirked, earning a glare from your brother, Liam.
“Don’t you dare, Styles.” He growled, causing Harry’s smirk to grow, glad that he had gotten a reaction.
“We found out something very…odd.” Louis continued.
“A secret.” Niall announced.
“A very well-kept secret.” Zayn added.
“Don’t. Even. Think. About. It.” Your brother said, glaring at each of the boys in turn.
The four boys looked at each other, before yelling in unison, “You’re adopted!”
Liam started yelling at his friends, clearly agitated, but you weren’t sure what he was saying anymore. His words started to run together as you stopped paying attention. You didn’t really react to the news, not physically at least, because you weren’t really sure how to react – after all, that kind of news wasn’t announced every day, and you weren’t sure of the correct protocol to respond with. You were shocked that the people you called your parents, the people you loved dearly, would lie to you.
But mostly, you were disappointed, because even your own birthparents didn’t want you.
(Age 16) Zayn:
“They wanted you, they really did.” The woman you had called ‘mother’ for all these years insisted.
“Then why did they give me away?” you challenge, knowing that she was just trying to make you feel better.
“They just weren’t in the position – financially – to support you; they figured you’d have a better life with another family.” Zayn assured.
You snort; for someone with such little practice, Zayn was an excellent liar.
Standing up, you smooth out your skirt, “When you decide to tell the truth, I’ll be waiting.”
You did believe they were telling the truth, you just didn’t want the words they were telling you to be true, so you lied to yourself in hopes that the fiction you told yourself would eventually become fact.
You opened the front door, before slamming it behind you as you step into the cold street, the chilly winter air blowing over your skin, causing a shiver to run through your body. Folding your arms over your chest, you began to walk, needing space to think, to scream.
Because, that was all you wanted to do.
(Age 15) Louis:
“Honestly, sometimes I can’t believe I’m even related to you!” Louis shouted, clearly agitated. It hadn’t been your fault, you hadn’t meant to break the vase. It was purely accidental, but one accident was enough to tip Louis over the edge tonight; after a rough day at work and the hundreds of errands he had to run, he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to fall asleep and forget about the rest of the world.
Too bad he couldn’t; his mother had told him to look after you.
“You’re the worst sister ever, you’re always getting into trouble, Y/N!” he yelled, breaking your concentration briefly, before you began contemplating once again.
He called you his sister, but were you really?
You knew the answer; you had known for a long time.
“How can you say that? How can you say that I’m your sister, when I’m not?”
“What are you talking about, Y/N?” Louis asked, confused at your sudden outburst – you had been silent up until this point.
“I’m talking about how I’m adopted, how you’re not my brother.”
(Age 14) Niall:
You didn’t remember much, of your parents.
After all, they had given you away at a young age, so it was hard for you to pull up these memories that were buried so deep. The earliest memory you had of your birthparents was one of your birthdays. You couldn’t remember how old you were, but you remembered the taste of chocolate cake and your parents singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you.
And, even though you couldn’t remember them, you missed them.
Your foster parents, and your new family, had never brought up your adoption before – mostly because they were unsure as to whether you knew or not. If you didn’t know, they didn’t want to tell you – in fear of you being mad, or upset.
One day, after hearing your mother talk in a hushed voice about your adoption to a neighbour, you decided to take matters into your own hands.
“I want to know who my parents are.” You said one night, as you and the rest of the family gathered around the dinner table for supper.
Niall spat out his drink, choking on the water upon hearing the news. Your father sat frozen, his spoonful of peas centimetres away from his mouth. A thick silence enveloped the room; the only sounds were that of Niall coughing, and your mother putting down her silverware, before speaking gently.
“I think we need to have a talk.”