That word always scraped at me like a dull knife. As if motherhood, marriage, womanhood were simple lines on a to-do list. As if the years I spent making everyone else’s life easier meant nothing. Like my work began and ended in the kitchen.
He went on. “Why don’t you be more like your sister Camille? She’s not even your sister by blood, and yet she’s miles ahead. Unmarried, independent, smart—she earned her own money and place in the world. She can travel wherever she wants and doesn’t burden anyone for it.”
Camille. The orphan they adopted when I was fifteen. The golden girl who walked into our lives and stole every single piece of love I thought I owned.
Before I could respond, my father walked in—David, stern as ever, with that gaze that had never once looked at me with pride.
“She’s right,” he said, sipping tea as if he hadn’t just walked into a storm. “Camille is the better woman. Smart. Practical. Knows what she wants.”
Then he looked at me.
“You, Erika… you were born into this house, but sometimes I wonder if that was the real mistake.”
I stared at him, silent.
“There’s a reason why Camille’s thriving and you’re still stuck ironing clothes and burning food. If I had a choice, she’d be my daughter. She doesn’t rely on men for anything.”
The room spun, my breath tightening. I didn’t reply. I never did. I had learned over the years that pain was quieter when swallowed.
But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
I thought I could endure that and continue living this life, but not until that same night. He left his laptop open on the dining table. The email app still running. I wasn’t snooping. I swear, I wasn’t. But the subject line caught my eye:
“Paris – Wedding Confirmation”
My heart stopped. I clicked it.
Inside was a beautifully crafted itinerary. Elegant fonts. Gold accents. Venue details. Champagne menus.
A wedding. In Paris. Kier and Camille.
And the guest list? My father. My son. His wife.
My family.
Everyone… but me.
They hadn’t just excluded me. They had replaced me.
I finally snapped when I heard Kier’s voice from the bedroom.
“Erika!”
I turned slightly.
He threw a wrinkled shirt at me.
“You really don’t know how to do your job? What the hell did you do to my clothes?”
The shirt hit my face with a sharp snap, then fell to the floor.
“What is this?” Kier barked, glaring at the wrinkled garment. “Why the hell isn’t this done yet?”