In our family, Mom was the only princess. I was just the servant.

My father and brother adored her, doted on her, and let her unleash all her cruelty on me—her personal punching bag.

She said my birth ruined her figure, made her old and ugly. From the moment I took my first breath, she despised me.

Every year on her birthday, while the house filled with laughter, flowers, and cake, she made sure I disappeared—locked away in the attic to “reflect on my mistakes.”

That attic became my world of silence and shadows, while hers overflowed with praise and presents.

“Mom, are you finally satisfied?”

But then—why did you all regret it only after I died?

——

"Don't be angry, Mom… I won’t do it again."

I’ll be exactly what you want me to be.

Ignoring her insults echoing down the hall, I climbed into the attic one last time, heart already hollow. I closed the door behind me—no tears, no fight left.

In the stillness, I stared up at the bright moon. The crimson mandala bloomed across my vision, vivid and final.

"Why doesn't my hand hurt at all, but my chest feels like it's being crushed?"

"I'm giving myself back to you, Mom. That’s what you wanted, right?"

And just like that, I left—quietly, like I had lived.

But I didn’t vanish. Not right away.

I lingered, my soul drifting through the cold night air. No one noticed I was still up there in the attic.

Not even when morning came.

I let out a hollow laugh. "Elara, even in death, you're invisible."

Maybe I really was a mistake—an unwanted crack in their perfect family portrait.

Without me, they could go back to being happy. I was just sorry they’d have to clean up the mess I left behind.

The next morning, my brother Asher Quinn stumbled downstairs, yawning, irritated by the clutter in the living room. Only then did he remember—

I was still locked upstairs.

I used to wait until they were asleep, sneak out of the attic, and clean everything—quietly, like a ghost they never wanted to see.

Frustrated, he stormed to the attic and pounded on the door.

"Elara, are you crazy? Why haven’t you cleaned up yet? Still trying to spite me?"

"If you’re so useless, just leave already. What’s the point of keeping you around?"

"It’s just a holiday. Was that really enough to make you act like this?"

A wicked thought crept into my mind—I wanted him to open the door.

I wanted to see the impatience drain from his face the moment he laid eyes on my lifeless body.

Would he finally feel something?

A flicker of regret? A sliver of guilt?

Or would he just sneer, like always, and mutter, “Elara, even in death, you're disgusting.”

But that moment never came.

Asher pounded on the attic door for what felt like ages. When I didn’t answer, the annoyance in his eyes turned to ice.

He took a step back, ready to kick the door open—but just then, our father, dressed for work, stopped him.

“Leave her,” he said coolly. “If she doesn’t want to come out, then maybe she shouldn’t come out—ever again.”

Mom emerged from their bedroom, sleep-heavy and draped in silk. She curled into Dad’s arms like a pampered kitten.

Even without makeup, she was still striking—beautiful in that effortless, cruel way.

Her voice, soft and syrupy, sent a chill through me.

“Asher, bring the lock. I feed her, clothe her. Who is she rebelling against?”

“She wants to resist? Let’s see how long she lasts this time.”

Then, with a giggle, she pressed a kiss to Dad’s cheek.

Asher scoffed with jealousy, and Mom laughed, playful, brushing his hair back and tapping his forehead.

“You’re a grown man and still so clingy.”

It was a picture-perfect scene of familial warmth—one I had watched play out countless times from the shadows.

And no matter how many times it happened, it still shattered something inside me.

The only difference this time was that I couldn’t cry anymore.

Souls don’t have tears.

It wasn’t that Mom didn’t know how to love—she just chose not to love me.

To her, I was a blemish. A nuisance. A mistake.

They left the house smiling. At the door, my parents kissed goodbye like teenagers.

Dad brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and whispered sweetly, “Vivienne, go get some rest. Last night must’ve worn you out.”

Mom’s cheeks flushed. She gave him a half-hearted slap on the chest and scolded, “You’re terrible. Look what you’ve done—I can’t even nap today.”

She flipped her hair and added with pride, “My student, Serena Holloway, has a strong shot at winning the Golden Grace Dance Finals dance finals. I have to be there.”

Dad’s eyes lit up. “That gifted little dancer? No wonder you care so much.”

“She’s the most talented, beautiful, and hardworking child I’ve ever seen,” Mom beamed. “Not like Elara—bottom of her class, no ambition, always fiddling with her silly little bottles and jars. She’s an embarrassment. I should’ve never let her stay.”

When she spoke of Serena, her eyes sparkled with pride.

When she mentioned me, her lip curled in disgust.

Dad frowned. “Don’t talk about her. You’re just ruining your own good mood.”

But… Mom, Dad, do you even remember?

Your "embarrassment" used to be a straight-A student—the one the teachers praised, the one you used to brag about.

When I was fourteen, you took my brother out to celebrate his birthday—just the two of you. You spent the entire day and night laughing, eating, playing.

And I?

I was locked out of the house.

It rained that night—cold, relentless. I huddled under the eaves, soaked to the bone, stomach growling.

The streetlights at the intersection flickered on and off. Every time headlights approached, I lifted my head in hope. Every time, it wasn’t you.

Hope came and went with every car.

Disappointment settled in like the cold.

It wasn’t you who came for me. It was the old neighbor grandma who found me, shivering and drenched.

She wrapped me in a warm quilt and handed me a bowl of steaming rice. The rising heat blurred my vision and stung my eyes.

I clutched the bowl and choked on tears.

“Grandma… why do Mom and Dad only love my brother? Why don’t they care about me?”

Her weathered hand patted my head again and again.

“Good child,” she said, “if you’re good enough, your parents will see you.”

So I believed her.

I tried. I tried so hard.

I studied until my eyes burned, always ranked first in class, filled the house with awards and certificates. I placed them where you couldn’t miss them, hoping—desperately—that maybe this time, you’d smile at me.

But you didn’t.

You frowned.

You swept my trophies into the trash like garbage.

Then came the parent-teacher meeting.

Every student had someone beside them. Except me.

Behind my back, the whispers started.

“So what if she’s top of the class? She’s still an orphan.”

“Elara, are you unwanted?”

“She's just a pitiful stray no one loves.”

That day, I snapped.

I threw away the good manners I'd held onto for years and lashed out. I flipped desks, hurled chairs. Chaos erupted. A heavy water cup struck the back of my head.

In the office afterward, parents rushed to defend their children.

“It was just a joke—no need to blow things out of proportion.”

But then you arrived, Mom.

You wrapped an arm around my shoulders like a mother should, and said coldly, “It’s all in the surveillance footage. If they don’t apologize, I’ll call the police.”

For a moment, I felt warmth. Safety.

She’s protecting me, I thought.

Maybe Grandma was right. Maybe I was finally good enough.

The bullies apologized—awkward, humiliated.

And I? I walked out of that office with my chin high, like a proud little peacock.

My heart ached with hope.

Then, outside, your hand grazed the back of my head, where the swelling throbbed. Your voice was like ice.

“Does it hurt?”

Of course it hurts. Every inch of me did.

I looked up at you, wanting to say, ‘No, Mom. It doesn’t hurt.’

But before I could speak, your hand cracked across my face.

Your eyes were full of disgust.

“Elara, have you no shame? You're a girl, and you brawl like some gutter rat. Why didn’t she beat you to death?”

“They were right. What’s the point of good grades if you have no manners? You’ve embarrassed me. I should’ve never given birth to you.”

“You’re always such an eyesore.”

And just like that, I understood.

You weren’t protecting me.

You were protecting your pride.

After that, I stopped trying to shine.

The teachers who used to praise me now looked at me with pity.

I became the student who made people sigh.

But how could you expect me to keep blooming when you were the one crushing me?

You broke me—and then you looked down on the pieces.