No caption. No mention. Just a perfect picture of everything I wasn’t allowed to be part of.

I had cooked for them. Served them. Loved them.

And they had forgotten me. Left me.

Again.

The tears came quietly this time. Not loud or dramatic. Just slow, tired, and steady. I didn’t sob. I didn’t scream.

I just let the ache fall from my eyes… because no one was ever going to notice.

My eyes were swollen when I woke up. I must’ve cried myself to sleep on the couch because the stiffness in my back told me I hadn’t moved all night.

And I was late.

I scrambled to my feet, realizing with horror that I hadn’t prepared breakfast—the one thing they expected from me without fail, every single day.

As I rushed into the kitchen, I heard the sharp edge of Kier’s voice from the dining room.

“Where have you been?” he snapped, seeing me step into the room. “Still sleeping at this hour? Where’s breakfast?”

Before I could open my mouth, Camille emerged from the kitchen with a spatula in hand, smiling as if none of it was serious.

“Don’t worry,” she said brightly. “I already started cooking. She’s tired, so I let my sister sleep a little longer.”

“No!” Kier barked. “She should be ashamed of herself. Sleeping while you, our guest, cook? All she does is stay home, and now she’s even pushing her responsibility onto you?”

He turned to me, fuming. “Have some care for the people feeding you. Do something useful.”

I lowered my gaze and stepped past Camille quietly. “It’s okay,” I said softly. “I’ll handle the cooking. You just sit and wait.”

Camille smiled, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “It’s fine. It’s just chopping vegetables. Don’t make it a big deal.”

But before I could respond, our father walked in, placing a mug on the table.

“Even if it’s just chopping, you shouldn’t do that, Camille,” he said. “Your hands aren’t made for the kitchen. You’re a designer, not a housemaid. Let Erika handle it—it’s her thing.”

“It’s not a big deal, Dad,” Camille said with a small laugh, taking a knife anyway. “I can help.”

“No, really, I’ll do it,” I said again, trying to take the knife from her hand.

But she insisted, and I didn’t want to start an argument in front of everyone, so I let it go.

We stood side by side at the counter, both cutting vegetables in a tense silence, until suddenly—

“Agh!” Camille shrieked.

Blood dripped from her finger. She dropped the knife as Kier rushed into the kitchen in panic.