The belt carved lines across every inch of my body. I screamed myself hoarse trying to explain—

But she didn't hear me. Wouldn't hear me. Her eyes stayed red and empty as the blows kept falling.

Only when exhaustion took her did she finally stop. She locked my door and went to sleep.

The next morning, my mother found me still hanging there. Covered in welts. Barely breathing.

She froze.

She stared at me like she was seeing me for the first time in her life.

Then, hands shaking, she cut me down.

"Corinne?" Her voice cracked.

"Oh God, what did I do?"

"Did I—did I mix you two up again?"

That day, my mother wept like her heart was being torn out. She touched my wounds with trembling fingers, apologizing over and over:

"I'm so sorry, Corinne."

"Your sister did so poorly on her exams. I just wanted to teach her a lesson."

"But I got confused again."

"I'm useless—I can never tell you two apart..."

Watching her hold me, crying so hard she could barely breathe, apologizing without end—

I felt something twist in my chest.

I couldn't bring myself to blame her.

Instead, fighting through the pain, I comforted her:

"It's okay, Mom. It doesn't hurt."

"I know you're just sick."

"Let's go to the hospital, okay? Once you're better, you won't make mistakes anymore."

My mother shook her head, tears streaming.

"Treatment costs too much. I don't want to waste money."

"I need to save it for your education."

In that moment, warmth flickered through my scarred and battered heart.

I made myself a promise: once I started working, I would save every penny I could. I would take my mother to get treated.

Then she'd never mistake me for someone else again. Never beat me for no reason.

All four years of college, I studied while working every job I could find.

I never asked my family for a single cent.

After I started working, I threw myself into making money even harder, not daring to rest for a single day.

Meanwhile, my sister dropped out of high school and lounged around the house doing nothing—either playing cards or shopping.

Mom always complained to me over the phone:

"Your sister has never been sensible. Mom can only rely on you."

"If one day my illness actually gets better, I'll make up for all the love I've missed giving you over the years."

I believed her.

I believed Mom loved me. She was just sick.