Dad tossed his work clothes on the side of the road like trash, brushing his hands off before casually throwing his jacket over his shoulder.

I jumped into a taxi to follow them. Eventually, their car stopped at a five-star hotel.

Standing outside the restaurant, I heard Scott’s voice, dripping with fake concern. "Dad, Mom, is Savannah okay? I told them not to hurt her legs. It’ll make her injury worse."

Dad chuckled and sipped his wine, tossing a sleek black card onto the table. "She can walk, so she’s fine. You did well. She’s disabled anyway and I don’t want her drawing attention at school."

"Here’s 250 thousand dollars. Use it to reward those classmates," Dad said, sliding the money across the table.

Mom, meanwhile, couldn’t stop admiring the fur coat Scott had given her.

She ran her fingers over it, smiling like she’d won the lottery. "Who says daughters are the only ones with taste? My son is just as good—if not better! Look at this fabric, Scott. You must’ve put so much thought into it. Thank you, sweetheart. I love it!"

Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, she added, "When Savannah graduates, I’ll convince her to apply for a disability certificate. She can get a few hundred bucks a month from that. And you can just help her find a cleaning job. It’ll be good for her."

I stood outside the door, frozen, their words cutting deeper than I could’ve imagined.

Disabled. That was all I was to them. Was it my fault I had a broken leg?

I was three years old when it happened. They were too busy working to notice me, let alone care. The water boiled away on the stove and the gas exploded.

A neighbor saved me, dragged me out of the flames, but they couldn’t save my legs.

My parents had the money for my treatment, but they wouldn’t spend it. They said they needed it for their projects, their business.

I still remembered lying in that hospital bed, neighbors and doctors looking at me with pity. Mom and Dad came once. Just once. Then they disappeared, like I didn’t even exist.

That memory had haunted me for seventeen years.

And now, here they were, calling it my fault, like I had chosen this life.

Apparently, because I was a daughter, I wasn’t allowed to succeed. Because I had a broken leg, I wasn’t allowed to dream. All I was good for was a miserable, 'simple' life.

If that was how they felt, then fine. I didn’t need them.