My best friend laughed in disbelief. “Finally! We’ll come pick you up next month. But... are you really ready to leave your husband? Your son?”
I smiled bitterly, tears trailing down my cheeks.
What husband? What son?
The image of them smiling together at that award ceremony still haunted me.
“Aunt Loren, can you be my mom?”
“I don’t want her anymore. She looks like one of those aunts who sells vegetables. I was humiliated at school last time because of her!”
“Loren is graceful, elegant, well-spoken…how could your mother compare?”
I realized I had walked in at the wrong time. I was the uninvited guest at their happy celebration. The outsider who didn’t belong.
I looked down at my hands—scarred and calloused from years of care, cleaning, cooking, and self-sacrifice.
Looking at my son, who I had raised for seven years, I finally lost control.
“Arthur, choose. Me, or her.”
His eyes flashed with fury. “How dare you insult her? You were late. It was Loren who helped me rise. Don’t you dare bully her!”
Abraham’s small face twisted in anger, and he pushed me with all his strength.
I lost balance and crashed into a wine rack. Glass shattered. Blood ran down my arm.
Arthur rushed forward—not to help me, but to shield Loren from flying glass, cradling her like she was made of porcelain.
The champagne spilled, and with it, the illusion of a happy family shattered completely.
After that day, they no longer hid their relationship. They paraded their love openly.
Today was my birthday. Again, they claimed to be busy. But I saw the truth on social media—Arthur and Loren beaming over candles and roses. In the photo, both of them wore the clothes I had ironed for them that very morning.
I called again and again. He didn’t pick up. Finally, he sent a single message:
“She’s your sister. She’s sick and needs care. How can you be so heartless?”
“Sister.” Just two syllables, yet they bound me like chains.
Loren had a rare blood disease, in and out of hospitals since childhood. All my parents' love went to her. I was born not as a daughter, but as her blood bag.
They threw grand parties for her birthday, forgot mine completely.
She loved flowers, so they filled the house with blooms—even though I was allergic.
They’d leave me hungry and alone, only to return, laughing, their stomachs full.
If I showed even a hint of sadness, I was scolded.
“Your sister is ill! Why are you so selfish?”