Chapter 1: The Rejection

The email landed like a punch: Emily’s school application—rejected. I stared at my phone, cold coffee forgotten, as my daughter’s future slipped through my fingers.

In the pit of my stomach, dread settled like a cold stone. To make it even weirder, a seven-year-old boy had mysteriously appeared on my household records—a total stranger now listed as part of my family. I felt a shiver run down my back, already picturing some kind of bureaucratic nightmare unfolding behind my back.

Panicked, I tracked down the boy’s parents to confront them, but they were completely shameless. “Anyway, my son’s already been in school for a year. Even if you’re upset, there’s nothing you can do. Worst case, I’ll give you three thousand bucks as compensation.”

My blood boiled. The nerve of these people. It was like being robbed in broad daylight, and they acted like I was the crazy one for making a big deal out of it.

While preparing to sue, I used my status as his legal guardian to transfer their son’s school registration to a tiny rural district in the mountains, hundreds of miles away. It was the kind of payback they’d never see coming.

Now it was their turn to lose their minds.

And I was perfectly justified: “Since we’re on the same household record, he’s my son now. What happens to my son is none of your business.” My voice didn’t shake. For once, I had the upper hand.

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My daughter’s school application was rejected.

A rejection email popped up on my phone as I sipped burnt coffee at the kitchen counter, half-listening to Emily chatter about crayons. The reason? The condo’s school spot had already been used and couldn’t be claimed again.

How was that possible?

It’s my own condo—how could the spot have been used without me knowing?

I rushed to the school office, contract in hand, demanding to see the registration records. Lincoln Elementary looked exactly like every school I’d ever seen on TV—faded red bricks, flag snapping in the wind, PTA flyers taped to the front doors. The linoleum floor squeaked under my sneakers as I paced, the scent of dry-erase markers and old paper thick in the air. I tried to calm my racing heart as I waited at the reception desk, feeling out of place and desperate.

And the moment I saw the results, I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.

The records showed the spot had indeed been used last year. Someone else’s child had attended school for a whole year using my condo’s address. Their handwriting was scrawled next to mine, as if they belonged there.

And I hadn’t heard a word about it.

I was about to lose my mind.

My wife and I had pinched every penny, and with help from both our parents, finally scraped together enough for the down payment on a $700,000 school district condo downtown. We’d packed up our old life, traded in our clunky car for something used, and juggled three jobs between us—all for Emily.

All of it, just to give our daughter the best education possible.

And now they tell me the spot’s gone?

The school spot can only be used once every six years—the next time would be five years from now. I stared at the printout, my mind whirring, heart pounding in my ears. It felt like we’d gambled everything and lost it all in one spin.

So what about my daughter?

I demanded the school immediately give me the other parent’s information.

But they refused, citing student privacy.

“Sorry, we can’t directly give you the student’s parent information, but we can try to contact them for you.” The school administrator’s tone was flat but apologetic, like they’d had this conversation before. She handed me a tissue box across the desk.

I wanted to scream, to demand someone fix this, but all I could do was clench the tissue in my fist and try to swallow the panic rising in my throat. My fingers trembled as I tried to steady my voice, feeling the eyes of other parents flicker over to me.

After a while, the school official came back: the other party refused to communicate.

“The other parent said their child used their own spot and has no obligation to explain to others.” She shrugged, almost helpless.

My temples throbbed. I must have looked terrible. I pressed my palms against my eyes, fighting back the urge to yell. The world felt upside down.

A teacher quietly reminded me: as long as the condo is yours, only your child can use the spot.

It took me a few seconds to process that.

So I drove straight to the city clerk’s office.

When the staff pulled up my household info, I was stunned.

There really was an extra person under my name.