Just as she was about to put the meat in her mouth, Margaret’s chopsticks struck her face.
"Starved-to-death ghost—never seen meat before?!"
Her sharp voice pierced the room, and I was startled by the sudden outburst.
"You hardly do any work, but you eat like a pig. The moment you see meat your eyes go green! What’s the point of me raising you? Eat it—choke on it for all I care!"
Sophie shrank into herself, not daring to make a sound.
When Margaret made to hit her again, I quickly grabbed her arm.
"Mom, it’s just a piece of meat. Why get so worked up?"
Margaret shot me a glare, though her tone softened slightly.
"You’ve lived the good life so long you don’t get it—if she eats an extra piece of meat, your brother loses one. She doesn’t know how to care for her brother, but I do!"
"Do you know what he means to us? He’s the only male heir of the Parker family—he’s the one to carry on the family name!"
Her words shocked me. I wanted to argue, but she picked up the piece of meat and put it back into my bowl.
"At least you’re sensible—eat more."
My appetite vanished. My eyes drifted to Sarah, who was eating silently with her head down.
Through her hair, I noticed a large bruise on her forehead.
"Sarah, what happened to your forehead?"
Her chopsticks froze, and she lowered her head further. Her voice was barely audible.
"N-nothing… I just bumped it."
I noticed Sarah’s hands trembling, something that made me uneasy, so I pressed on.
"Sarah, how old are you now? Where do you work?"
"She’s twenty-one," Margaret cut in before Sarah could speak. "She got married last year—to Mike Johnson from the next rural community. I found her a good match!" Her voice was raised with pride.
Then her tone darkened as she turned to Sarah.
"It’s rare for you to come home, and you show up empty-handed. And that long face—who’s it for? If you’re not going to eat, get back to your husband’s house!"
Sarah suddenly lifted her head and forced a smile that made my chest tighten.
She was only twenty-one, just three years older than me, but she looked like a woman in her forties or fifties.
When she looked up, I saw more than the bruise on her forehead—her face was covered in marks.
These weren’t from a fall. They were from being hit.
"Sarah, what happened to your face?" I couldn’t hold back the question.
She glanced at Margaret, then quickly shook her head, saying nothing, though tears slipped down her cheeks.