"People say a copied head is better than a copied book.
But I say a copied heart is better than a copied head, because memories can fade — but the heart never forgets pain as long as it beats."
— Bella Angel Douglas
Sofia's POV.
I am seated in my office, staring through the glass window on the busy streets of Sinkor.
Cars rush pass one another. People hurry along the sidewalks — some heading to work, some to school, others to parties and places unknown. Life is moving forward.
But my mind is not here.
My thoughts drift back to a memory I have tried so hard to forget.
I saw a disabled little girl being dropped off at the Tubman Disabled Home on 10th Street. She cried uncontrollably, her tiny hands stretched out, begging her mother not to leave. But her mother turned her back, walked to the car, and drove away without looking back.
That memory pierces my heart.
Because I was like that little girl.
My name is Sofia Gabrielle Parker.
My last name might tell you that I come from a wealthy family — and yes, I do. But wealth does not guarantee love. I was born into riches, yet I never grew up enjoying them. I never experienced the warmth of my parents' affection.
When I was born, the doctors told my parents that due to a genetic condition, I would never grow taller than 3 feet 4 inches.
My parents were devastated.
They had always wanted a daughter. My mother already had two sons, and she longed for a baby girl she could dress up, pamper, and spoil endlessly. But the dreams she had built in her heart shattered the moment she heard the diagnosis.
They searched for hope.
From hospital to hospital.
From country to country.
For six long years, they chased different opinions — praying for a miracle, hoping someone would say the doctors were wrong.
But every diagnosis remained the same.
In our African culture, some advised my parents to visit a "Zoe" — a traditional spiritual leader — to confirm whether I was truly their biological child or if I had been switched at birth with a dwarf.
Even the Zoe's conclusion matched the doctors' reports.
Soon, the whispers began.
Distant relatives mocked my parents because of my height. Their friends grew uncomfortable around me. Business partners slowly withdrew. Investors hesitated. Deals were lost.
My existence became an embarrassment.
My parents had once arranged a future marriage agreement between me and the son of their closest friend and business partner. But when my condition became widely known, that family cut all ties with us.
The shame grew heavier.
The losses grew greater.
And eventually… I became a sacrifice.
Unable to bear the humiliation and financial decline they believed I was causing, my parents made a decision that would change my life forever.
They gave me up.
I was sent to an orphanage in Maryland County, run by the Holy Family Catholic Sisters.
I remember that day clearly — painfully clearly.
It was a gloomy Monday morning. The sky looked as though it understood what was about to happen. My parents flew from Monrovia to Maryland on their private jet.
They dropped me off.
No long goodbye.
No promise to return.
No final embrace that I can remember clearly.
They simply left.
I was six years old.
I cried until my body had no strength left. For an entire month, I cried myself to sleep, hoping they would come back for me.
They never did.
The emotional trauma affected my health. I stopped eating properly. I was constantly weak. Eventually, I was hospitalized because of stress and malnutrition.
What could a six-year-old child possibly do in a strange place, surrounded by strangers?
I felt small.
Not just in height — but in worth.
I missed my parents. I missed the protection of my two older brothers. I missed the feeling of belonging somewhere.
But life is not a fairytale.
All I ever wanted was love.
Even now… all I still want is love.
Their love could have made me feel important. It could have helped me stand tall, even if I was physically small. It could have healed the broken parts of me.
Instead, I learned to survive.
Life in the orphanage was not easy.
Some children bullied me. They would place my food on high shelves so I would go to bed hungry. Sometimes they locked doors behind me, knowing I couldn't reach the handle. I was beaten on several occasions simply because I was different.
Seventeen long years.
Seventeen years of pain.
Seventeen years of silent prayers.
I prayed for my parents.
I prayed for myself.
I prayed for strength.
It hurts.
It still hurts.
But the question that lingers in my heart is this:
Can I ever truly forgive them?
Author's Note
I will try my best to design a beautiful cover for this book. I am not very skilled at creating covers yet, but please be patient with me — I promise it's coming soon.
Please vote and share this story with others.
And I would truly love your honest feedback about Sofia. What do you think about her so far?
Thank you for reading. I need you all on this journey with me.
With love,
Bella Angel Douglas ❣️