“Put that down right now and fix your shirt.  Guests are going to be arriving soon and you’re not even dressed!” My mother glared at me from under her six coats of mascara.  “What am I going to do with you?!”

I ignored her for a little longer and examined the reflections of the sky and our backyard in the mirrored lenses.

“Irina!”

I looked at my mother dressed in her cream-coloured skirt and jacket, and the tables set out for the charity fundraiser.  Grudgingly I went inside to change. 

“My name’s not even Irina,” I muttered, making sure to drag my feet across the freshly waxed hardwood floor of the ballroom.

I found the birth certificate last week.  I was looking for unused folders in my dad’s office for my work.  I wasn’t supposed to be in there, but my dad left the French doors open and neither of my parents were home.

I didn’t think it could be made any more obvious of how adopted I am into the rest of my white, light-eyed, upper class family, but the birth certificate proved my thoughts wrong.  As much as everyone has accepted me, after finding the small, incomprehensible document, I don’t think I can ever feel like I fully fit in.

“Irina, your mother’s waiting for you.  She wants you to be with her to greet the guests,” said Nenette.  She’s one of our more favoured maids, and my nanny when I was smaller. 

“Oh, okay,” I said dully but politely.

“I put your dress on your bed.  The pink one?”

“Oh, okay, thanks Nenette.”

“Okay.”  She smiled and went off to finish setting things up.  I turned and made my way up the curved staircase to my room.