Meanwhile, my husband, Nate Nolan, lay sprawled on a single-seater sofa, glued to his phone, idly shaking our daughter’s walker with his foot.
The moment she saw me, my daughter pouted and let out an aggrieved cry.
I ignored the pain in my swollen ankle, hurried forward, and scooped her into my arms, gently soothing her.
Looking at the warmth shared among the family—the laughter, the doting smiles—I felt an ache rise in my chest. My daughter and I were nothing more than outsiders in this household. No, perhaps even less than that.
Julia rested a hand on her slightly rounded belly and smirked. "Oh, look at her—just because she gave birth to a daughter, she treats her like a rare treasure. So delicate."
My aunt burst into laughter. "Pfft—"
And my mother, wiping tears of amusement, practically collapsed against the sofa’s armrest. "Who says she doesn’t? Every single day, she cradles that child like she’s made of glass. I’m her grandmother, but I can’t even scold her."
"Mom," I said, my voice tight with restraint. "She’s just a child. It wouldn’t take much effort for you to—"
Before I could finish, Nate shifted his posture, scrolling on his phone without looking up. "Enough. Go cook already. I’m starving."
The resentment and exhaustion boiled inside me, but there was nowhere to release it.
With no choice, I secured my daughter to my back with a sling and made my way to the kitchen. My entire body ached—my waist sore, my legs weak from climbing the mountain all day—but no one seemed to care. The weight of sadness pressed down on me.
This house—this so-called home—felt nothing like one. It was nothing but an icy, lifeless shell.
I stirred the pot, my tears falling silently into the steam.
Do I really deserve to live like this?
From the living room, Julia’s laughter rang out, pulling me back to memories I had long buried.
I remembered how, as a child, my mother had favored Julia in everything.
Back then, we all lived together in my grandparents’ old house. Julia, taller and more graceful than me, always stood out.
I was left to wear her discarded shoes.
She outgrew them too quickly, and my mother never once thought of buying me a pair of my own.
So, every morning before school, I stuffed crumpled paper inside my socks just to keep my heels from slipping out.
I didn’t want anyone to laugh at me.