The Fake Heiress Said I Was Faking Being Mute, Until the Sign Language Teacher Understood My Cry for Help

I have mutism. When I was five, I said I was hungry. My adoptive mother locked me in an abandoned wine cellar on the family estate. She said I could come out when I learned to shut up. After that, I never spoke again. When I was eighteen, the Moretti family found me. They said I was their long-lost real daughter. The night I came home, the fake heiress Isabella packed her bags with red eyes: "You won't call me sister. That means you don't want me in this house." "Don't make this hard. I'll leave on my own!" I froze. I raised my hands and signed: 【No. I just can't speak.】 But no one understood sign language. Isabella bit her lip and teared up again: "Sister, I know you hate me for stealing eighteen years of your life." "You can curse me, hit me—why won't you say one word to me?" My brother Marco stepped in front of her and looked at me coldly: "Isabella already backed down. How far are you going to push her?" "Tell her right now that this family has room for her!" Everyone waited for me to speak. I stayed silent for a moment, then took out my phone and slowly typed: "Sorry. I haven't spoken since I was five." The living room went quiet. My mother was the first to react. She walked up to me, lips trembling. "What do you mean? What do you mean you haven't spoken since you were five?" I raised my hands. I wanted to tell her that every time I tried to make a sound, I saw that lightless wine cellar. But she couldn't understand. I could only lower my head and keep typing. "I can't." My brother Marco frowned. "When we found you, your adoptive parents never mentioned this." My fingers paused. The day the Moretti family found me, my adoptive mother Marta held my hand tight. She cried in front of everyone. She said she'd raised me like her own. She didn't want anything from the Morettis. She just hoped I wouldn't forget her. The whole time, she never asked me a single question. Because she knew I couldn't answer. Isabella suddenly set down her suitcase and walked over carefully. "Sister, I'm sorry. I didn't know you couldn't speak." "It must have been me. I misunderstood you and made you upset." She reached for me. The second her hand touched my wrist, I stepped back. Her eyes reddened immediately. "Sister still won't let me touch her?" Marco's face had just softened. Now it went cold again. "Sophia, Isabella already apologized." I looked at him and didn't move. My mother pressed his arm. "Enough. Sophia just came home today. Don't push her." She wanted to touch my face. Her hand stopped halfway, as if afraid of scaring me. In the end, she only straightened my crooked collar. "Tomorrow Mom will take you to the family clinic. Whatever the reason, we'll treat it slowly." I nodded. That night, I slept in the softest bed I'd ever felt. But I didn't dare turn off the light. In the middle of the night, I heard low voices outside the door. "Marco, do you think sister just doesn't want to call you, so she pretends she can't speak?" Isabella's voice was soft, tearful. Marco was quiet for a moment. "We'll know after the doctor examines her." "And if it's real?" "Then we'll cure her." "And if it's fake?" Outside, it went quiet. A moment later, Marco answered coldly: "The Moretti family can accept a sick daughter. Not a liar." The next day, Dr. Ricardo finished my exam and took off his stethoscope. "Her vocal organs show no obvious abnormalities. This isn't pathological mutism." "Based on her behavior, it's closer to psychogenic mutism caused by severe psychological trauma." My mother's face went pale. "What kind of trauma makes a child stop speaking for thirteen years?" Dr. Ricardo looked at the faint old scars on my wrist. "That's a question for the people who raised her." Isabella stood by the door. Her expression froze for a moment.

My adoptive parents came that afternoon. Marta rushed to me the second she walked in and grabbed my shoulders. "Sophia, why are you still pretending to be mute?" "You're back with your real parents now. Why bring that act here?" My mother froze. "Pretending?" "She's been like this since she was little. If she's unhappy, she stops talking and makes everyone guess." Marta wiped her tears, speaking fast and urgent. "When she was five, she stole money from home. We scolded her a little, and she sulked and refused to speak." "Later, whenever outsiders were around, she'd act pitiful. But once we got home and scolded her, she could talk again." My whole body went stiff. That wasn't true. When I was five, I didn't steal money. That day, my adoptive father got drunk and knocked over the rice barrel. The last of the rice spilled on the floor. I was so hungry I went to the kitchen and asked Marta when we could eat. She said my crying was bad luck. She dragged me into the abandoned wine cellar and locked me in for two whole days. I signed frantically. 【She's lying! She locked me in for two days. It was dark. No water. No food.】 Marta couldn't understand. But as if prepared, she spread her hands and cried to everyone. "See? This is what she does." "Whenever she won't admit she's wrong, she makes signs no one can understand and acts like a poor little victim." Isabella asked softly, "Auntie, did sister really speak in front of you?" "Of course!" "Then besides you two, did anyone else ever hear her?" Marta paused. Then she slapped her thigh. "A family living together every day—what witness do we need?" "Are you saying we raised her for eighteen years just to hurt her?" The pain on my mother's face slowly turned to hesitation. My father, Antonio, was silent for a long time. Then he asked quietly, "Sophia, will you try to call me Dad?" I opened my mouth. My throat felt stuffed with dusty cotton. I couldn't make even a breath of sound. Marco watched me for a long time. "You can't, or you won't?" I took out my phone. "I really can't." Marta sighed. "You'll have to indulge her from now on." "She's best at wearing people down. The more you care, the worse she gets." My mother suddenly asked, "Then what about the wounds on her wrist?" Marta's face changed. "Country kids get banged up. Isn't that normal?" I quickly rolled up my sleeve. Besides my wrist, there were round burn scars on my inner arm from cigarettes, and white marks from rope rubbing again and again. Marta grabbed my sleeve. "What are you doing, undressing in front of everyone!" My mother's eyes landed on those scars. They went red instantly. Just as the air froze, Isabella suddenly clutched her chest and collapsed onto the sofa, breathing hard. "Isabella!" Everyone rushed to her. The family doctor said it was just extreme emotional stress. Nothing serious. Isabella leaned in my mother's arms and still tried to explain for me. "It's my fault for not being considerate." "Sister must have suffered so much that she mistakes discipline for abuse." One sentence explained away the scars and turned my memory into exaggeration and revenge. Before leaving, Marta came to me and lowered her voice. "Don't think joining the Moretti family means you can dig up the past. If you dare talk, I can make them bring you back, and I can make them send you back." That night, my mother told me she'd hired a professional sign language teacher. "You don't have to speak if you don't want to. You don't have to change. We'll learn to understand you." In that moment, for the first time, I thought maybe coming back wasn't a bad thing. But outside the door, Isabella watched me quietly for a long time.

A week later, I transferred into the family academy where Isabella studied. The instructor put me next to her. "Isabella, your sister just got here. She doesn't know the academy. Take care of her." Isabella smiled and nodded. "Don't worry, Instructor. I'll take good care of her." She did take good care of me. When people asked why I didn't speak, she'd tear up and explain that I'd suffered a lot as a child, and she hoped no one would discriminate against me. In less than a day, the whole class knew I was the real daughter the Moretti family had just found. They also knew that after I came back, I used my mutism to nearly drive the adopted daughter out. At lunch, a few girls gathered around my desk. One named Laura signed a few movements and smiled. "I learned sign language. Can you understand me?" What she signed was: 【How many books did you eat today?】 A meaningless sentence. I thought she'd remembered it wrong. I patiently corrected her and told her the signs for "book" and "food" were different. Laura stared at me for two seconds, then burst out laughing. "Isabella, she doesn't know sign language at all." Everyone looked over. Isabella asked in surprise, "How could that be? Sister always uses sign language with us." "She signs all wrong. Her hand shapes and order are incorrect." Laura held up her phone. On the screen were a few signs she'd searched earlier. "My aunt is Deaf. I've learned sign language since I was little. Real sign language isn't like that." I typed: "Sign language has local signs and natural sign language. What you just did was incomplete." Laura read it and laughed. "Now that you're caught, you're making excuses?" Whispers rose around me. "Didn't her adoptive parents say she can speak?" "Maybe she just wants sympathy." "The real daughter just came back. Of course she'd find a way to drive out the fake one." I looked at Isabella. She immediately took my hand and shook her head at the others. "Don't talk about sister like that." "Even if she can speak, she must have her reasons." It looked like she was defending me. But it confirmed I was faking. That afternoon, I went to the office to hand in materials. When I came back, my notebook full of sign language notes had been torn to pieces and scattered in the trash. Laura crossed her arms. "Don't look at me. I didn't do it." I picked up every piece. That notebook was a gift from Grandma Nora in the community when I was six. Everyone thought I was mute. Only she, a Deaf woman, never forced me to speak. The first sign she taught me was "I'm hungry." The second was "I'm not wrong." Isabella crouched to help me pick them up, but tears fell first. "Sister, I'm sorry. If it weren't for me, no one would doubt you like this." I looked up at her. She leaned close and whispered so only I could hear: "Who do you think they'll believe? Someone who can't even speak, or the daughter who's been with them for eighteen years?" Before the last class that afternoon, the instructor sent me to academic affairs to submit transfer documents. After the classroom was empty, Isabella took my phone and sent my mother a message. "I'm not adjusting well at the academy. There's something I want to tell you in person." "Can you come after school?" After school, she sent me a message. "I found evidence of my adoptive mother admitting she abused you. She's afraid Mom and Dad will find out and wants me to delete it." "If you want the evidence, come to the wine cellar behind the auditorium." I stared at those words for a long time. In the end, I went alone.

The wine cellar door was ajar. No lights inside. Only a small window near the ceiling let in a thin, dim line of light. I stood at the door and didn't go in right away. Isabella messaged again: "The evidence is in the old computer in the back. You're not afraid to go in, are you? Don't you want to prove yourself?" I gripped my phone and slowly walked inside. Props and paint buckets from the school play were piled in the corner. The old computer sat on a wooden table. The screen was on. There was only one audio file. The moment I touched the mouse, a click came from behind me. The door locked. I ran to the door and pounded on it. No response. The smell of paint in the cellar was heavy. The darker it got, the clearer the memory from thirteen years ago became. Five-year-old me curled beside broken wooden crates, crying over and over that I was hungry. Outside, Marta kicked the door impatiently. "Shut up! Cry again and you'll never come out!" I began to gasp for air. At the same time, my father, mother, and brother arrived at the academy. As the three of them headed to my classroom, Isabella walked over from the auditorium carrying a stack of notebooks. When she saw them, she stopped short. Her face showed just the right amount of surprise. "Dad, Mom, Marco, what are you doing here?" My mother held up her phone. "Your sister asked us to come." "She said she wasn't adjusting well and had something to tell us in person." Isabella froze for a few seconds. Then, as if remembering something, her face slowly went pale. "There's something I don't know if I should tell you." She led the three of them into the reception room. After hesitating for a long time, she took out a recording. "I found this today when I was helping sister get her tablet." "I wanted to ask her about it when she came back. I didn't expect her to call you to the academy first." In the recording, a young girl's voice said clearly: "After I lock myself in the wine cellar, I'll pretend my old illness acted up and message them." "As long as they come to save me, they'll believe my adoptive parents abused me." "Then nothing Isabella says will matter." My mother's face went pale. "Is that Sophia's voice?" "I don't know." Isabella bit her lip. "I just found it on sister's tablet." "I hope it isn't her. But someone at the academy said they heard sister speak in private." Marco sneered. "No wonder she insisted on coming to the academy with us today. She even picked the wine cellar in advance." Just then, my mother's phone buzzed. I sent a message: "I'm locked in the wine cellar behind the auditorium. Come save me!" She stood up abruptly. "Whether it's real or not, we need to check!" But Isabella grabbed her. "Mom, if you go now, won't you be falling right into the plan in the recording?" "Sister knows you love her, so she keeps testing your limits." My father frowned deeply, but still started a video call with me. I answered. The screen was dark. Only my pale face and trembling hands were visible. I signed to them: 【The door is locked from the outside.】 【There's a strong paint smell. It's hard to breathe.】 【Please, come quick!】 Marco stared at the screen, face dark. "Sophia Moretti, we've heard the recording." "You went to all this trouble to lock yourself in. Aren't you just waiting to see if we'll save you?" "Say the location of the wine cellar right now, and I'll go immediately." "If you keep using those movements no one understands to lie, then stay in there and reflect!" I shook my head desperately. My fingers were shaking too hard to form complete signs. 【I'm not lying.】 【The door is really locked.】 【Mom, I'm scared.】 Marco looked away impatiently. My mother's eyes reddened. She reached for the phone several times, but the recording pinned her in place. "Sophia, just say one sentence." "Even one word, and Mom will come get you right now!" I opened my mouth. I used all my strength. But only broken gasps came out. Outside the screen, the meeting room door was suddenly pushed open. A woman in her forties walked in. "Mrs. Moretti, I'm the sign language teacher you hired. My name is Elena." "Sorry I'm late. Traffic." "You said in your message that Sophia had communication trouble at the academy, so I came straight here." She saw me on the video and stopped short. The next second, she snatched the phone and stared at my signs and the background behind me. "Where is this child?" Isabella's face shifted. "She's just throwing a tantrum with the family." Elena looked up sharply, more serious than ever. "She's using fluent natural sign language." "She says the door is locked from the outside. There's an irritant in the wine cellar. She's already having trouble breathing." "Her last sentence wasn't a tantrum!" Elena turned the screen toward them. On the video, I had slid down the wall to the floor. My fingers were still repeating the same movement unconsciously. "She's calling for her mom!"