You always knew you were a bit different than your parents.

You didn’t look like them whatsoever. To your parents, your adoption was at your birth, so they didn’t feel the need to tell you. You are their baby, in heart anyway.

Emily, your mother, cooked in the kitchen. Your father, Kayden, sat stationed under his car fixing it. You stirred your food around in the bowl.

“Mom, I’m not hitting puberty any time soon,” You complained, looking at your mother. She cupped your face, planting a kiss on the crown of your head.

“It’s okay, baby. You know, me and your father were late bloomers too.” She said, booping your nose.

“What does it matter? I’m adopted, anyway.” You say with a prominent frown. Your mother gaps, her eyes bulging out of her head. Your father hits his head on the bottom of the car.