I Was a Jane Doe on My Father's Autopsy Table

After telling Madison to focus on her game, my dad got a call from my mom, Rebecca.

“Marcus, Tyler just called. He was asking if Lainey came home,” she said, her voice tight with annoyance.

My dad sounded confused. “Lainey? Isn’t today Madison’s final? Why is he asking about Lainey?”

“Who knows!” my mom snapped. “Madison is his sister! I’ve told him a million times, Lainey is a wild-child with a bad attitude. She doesn’t belong in this family.”

I could picture my brother, Tyler, on the other end of the line, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He was studying psychology at Northwestern, and he never understood our parents’ hostility towards me.

“Mom, you can’t believe everything Madison says. Lainey is a good person, she’s just struggling. If you’d just pay attention…”

“I texted Lainey and she didn’t reply. Has she really not been home?”

My mom scoffed. “She comes and goes as she pleases. What am I supposed to do, put a leash on her? She’s probably out getting into trouble again.”

“Today is Madison’s big day. If he can’t make it, that’s fine.”

She paused, then added viciously, “And tell Tyler to stop worrying about Lainey’s drama. Honestly, it’s quieter around here without her.”

Tyler tried to argue, but my mom hung up on him.

She walked into the break room, where another detective asked her, “Rebecca, any leads on the Jane Doe? That poor girl.”

My mom shook her head, complaining, “Don’t even talk to me about it. It’s Lainey again. She probably whined to Tyler, and now they’re playing this disappearing game together.”

“She knows how busy we are. So damn selfish.”

She tried calling my phone, but it went straight to voicemail.

“That ungrateful brat. We would have been better off if we’d never found her. She’s nothing but trouble.”

Another detective overheard and sighed. “Rebecca, I remember when Lainey was taken. You and Marcus nearly tore Chicago apart looking for her. Now that she’s back, you treat her like an enemy.”

A bitter taste filled my mouth.

The daughter they got back wasn’t the princess they had imagined. I was withdrawn, rebellious, and covered in scars.

I was fifteen when they found me. In our sterile, modern house in Lincoln Park, my parents were cooing over a crying Madison.

I stood in the doorway in a cheap, worn-out t-shirt, staring at my beat-up Vans.

Madison saw me and stopped crying. She looked me up and down and asked with fake innocence, “Who’s the little hobo?”

My parents’ faces fell. Not because of what Madison said, but because of me.

I was their disappointing daughter.

“Detective Thompson, I checked the missing persons database. No reports filed in the last few days match the victim’s description,” an officer reported.

“You’re telling me this kid’s family didn’t even notice she was gone? That’s messed up.”

“What kind of parents wouldn’t care if their kid went missing?”

Listening to their conversation, I felt a wave of sadness so heavy it was hard to breathe.

My parents were sympathizing with the family of a stranger, never once considering if I, their own daughter who had been missing for days, was safe.

When I was kidnapped, they dropped everything to find me. Now, they just assumed my disappearance was a cry for attention.

Maybe I should have never come back to this family.

This was Madison’s home. Not mine.

The years they spent loving me were long gone, replaced by Madison.

The love and affection that should have been mine was never coming back.