In the morning, my mother baked a full tray of croissants, but I only got to eat two.

The rest were all store-bought frozen croissants.

So, I complained, “Mom, could I get more fresh baked croissants?”

My mother frowned and scolded me as she heard that, “Are you some kind of glutton reincarnated?”

“You've already finished everything and now you want more? Look at your sister—she's not nearly as greedy as you."

I glanced at my sister's plate, which still held plenty of croissants and argued, "But I only ate two, while Melody ate sixteen."

My mother flew into a rage. She scolded me while packing up the remaining croissants for my sister to take away.

"You even counted how many croissants your sister ate? You're so calculating!"

Calculating?

How could she call me by that when she wouldn't even give me the croissants that were left on Melody's plate?

——

My sister, Melody Lester, rarely got a long weekend off, so my mother decided to make fresh baked croissants.

The key to making croissants lied in the layers of the pastry.

Early in the morning, I helped her to get some ingredients in the supermarket and prepared the dishes.

My mother prepared the filling because our family recipe produced an out-of-this-world filling.

I took charge of layering the croissants, filling a whole tray in no time.

By the time Melody came home, all the croissants were already in the oven.

While the croissants baked, my mother shooed me out of the kitchen. I had no choice but to chat with my sister.

Fresh baked croissants were served at the table. Each of us got a plate.

Melody said happily, "Mom, I've been craving these. The croissants outside just can't compare to yours."

I nodded in agreement.

By the third croissant, I noticed something was off and spit it out.

These weren't fresh baked croissants—they were the frozen croissants I'd bought from the store and stored in the fridge.

I glanced at my sister. She was eating one after another, each one filled with the best filling.

I was certain I'd made enough croissants for three people.

Refusing to believe it, I kept eating. But by the time I finished the croissants on my plate, I hadn't found any fresh baked croissants.

My stomach felt uncomfortably full, but what hurt even more was my heart.

Melody ate with relish and my mother even picked croissants from her own plate to give her. The two of them chatted away, completely leaving me out.

I could not help but complain, "Mom, I want to eat more croissants."

My sudden outburst shattered the warm mother-daughter moment.

I was usually not so tactless, but after working so hard, I just wanted a few more croissants. Surely, my mother shouldn't blame me.

She glanced at my empty plate and frowned.

“Are you some kind of glutton reincarnated? You've already finished everything and now you want more? Look at your sister—she's not nearly as greedy as you."

But my sister's plate was practically overflowing.

In the past, I might have just let it slide, but remembering the diary I'd seen earlier, I felt compelled to argue. "But I only ate two, while Melody ate sixteen."

I pointed at my sister's still-full plate, making my mother stare at me in disbelief, her face flushing red with anger.

"You even counted how many croissants your sister ate? You're so calculating!" 

"How did I end up with such a calculating daughter? So greedy?"

I just wanted to say that I didn't mean to count them. I was just trying to work out what had happened to all the freshly baked croissants for three people — had I made too few?

But before I could explain, I saw my mother stormed into the kitchen, packing up the unbaked croissants.

She grabbed my sister and even took the croissants left in the plates. "Melody, Sylvia is so petty! Let's go—we're not eating here anymore!"

Tears blurred my vision.

The thunderous slam of the door shook the tears from my eyes.

Mom called me calculating, yet she wouldn't even give me the croissants left on my sister's plate. It turned out it wasn't that I made fewer croissants—there simply wasn't any portion for me at all.

After my mother left, she never came back. Not even a phone call. And I didn't call her either.

Later, I saw Melody updated her social media feed. It was a photo of her and my mother eating croissants together.

Instead, my sister called me, "Sylvia, you need to be more generous. Why make mom unhappy over a few croissants? She's staying with you all the time, so you can always eat her croissants."

"Why be so petty? Do you think I ate them all? Look how upset mom is!"

My sister immediately started to criticise.

I felt nothing inside, only asking her indifferently, "Were the croissants good? Thanks to you, the last time I had croissants was during the New Year."

Her lecture abruptly ended.

"You think mom favors me? Do you really think she's that kind of person?!"

She hung up.

The next day, my mother came home grumbling.

"It's just a few croissants. What's wrong with eating less? Have I ever starved you? Do you realize your words made your sister feel so guilty?"

"Favoritism? I cook for you, take care of you, but your sister never got that treatment! If anyone's showing favoritism, it's me favoring you!"

Her finger was practically poking my face.

"You said it yourself—just a few croissants. Did I not make enough? I spent half the day preparing them. Why should I only get two croissants?"

I felt so wronged.

We were both her daughters, but why did I get the huge mistreatment then?

My mother was about to say more when the alarm clock rang.

She hurriedly turned it off, grabbed some ingredients from the fridge and got busy in the kitchen.

After packing the meal, she seemed to remember something. Setting the lunchbox on the table, she dashed back to her room.

I stared at the lunchbox on the table and reached out my hand toward it.

When my mother came out, she was holding the durian I'd bought two days earlier.

When I wanted to eat it, she told me she'd eaten it—turns out she'd been saving it for my sister.

"I saved some food for you on the table. I really don't know what you have to complain about. I treat both of you sisters equally."

But not long after, my mother returned carrying the lunchbox.

"Sylvia, did you touch Melody's food?"

The lunchbox slammed onto the floor, spilling its contents.

Tomato scrambled eggs with only tomatoes, chili stir-fried pork with only chili peppers, soybeans stewed with pig's trotters with only soybeans.

I forced a grin and joked, "Mom, the food looks fine. Didn't Melody eat any?"

My mother instinctively retorted. "This is clearly leftovers she picked through. How could Melody eat such food?"

As soon as she said it, her face turned deathly pale.

I felt like I was about to cry.

"So this is the kind of food I'm supposed to eat?"

Back then, my mother had refused to stay with my sister and chose to stay with me instead.

"Your sister's room is tiny and my snoring is loud—I wouldn't want to disturb her rest. You have two rooms here and I can still cook for you."

I was genuinely happy she'd come to stay with me. After all, since then, she'd always favored Melody more, but this time she chose me.

Whatever the reason, my mother really did come to cook for me, just as she said. But everything she cooked was what Melody liked.

Of course, I bought all the ingredients.

Every time she finished cooking, she'd pick out the best bits first—just like today—and send them over to my sister.

Leaving me only the leftovers.

Two meals a day, never missing a single one, always on time. And what I ate were the leftovers.

Whenever I bought something nice, my mother would think to send some to Melody. Yet she never once thought to get me anything from my sister.

I could not say she did not love me—she occasionally washed my clothes and took care of me when I was sick.

But comparisons were the worst. Compared to the affection my sister received, the little affection I received felt utterly insignificant.

My mother always prioritized my sister first; only when there was love left over would she give it to me.

My mother, flustered and annoyed, kicked the lunchbox on the floor.

"You've eaten like this your whole life, Sylvia. I only took what your sister liked—not leftovers. Why are you nitpicking?"

I couldn't hold back any longer and shouted, "Do you think I like it? I have no choice!"

Melody was a picky eater, only picking at the things she liked. The leftovers were either mine or my mother's.

I was young back then. My mother said kids shouldn't be picky eaters, patting my head and praising me as a good child.

But it wasn't that kids shouldn't be picky—it was that I couldn't be picky.

As I grew older, I understood my mother's favoritism, yet I said nothing to preserve the surface calm.

I watched her shower most of her love on my sister, all while insisting she wasn't biased.

I endured it.

But when night fell and all was quiet, I couldn't sleep.

I was not asking for perfect fairness, but surely she couldn't show such blatant favoritism?

I wasn't adopted, after all.

"These are all trivial matters. Why do you have to dwell on them? Don't you know I hate this calculating attitude of yours the most?” 

“Melody is different—unassuming and generous. If you were like her, how could I not cherish you?" 

"I can give it to you, but you can't take it by force. Do you understand?"

"Your sister truly spoiled you rotten. When she was little, she gave you everything good. But you're like a debt-collecting ghost, always wanting everything."

The harsh words pierced my heart like poisoned arrows, making me barely able to breathe.

"Don’t you know the reason why she gave them to me, mom?"

"When we bought five pounds of apples, you gave me just one and gave the rest to Melody. In the end, she only gave me one because there were too many left."

"Mom, when we were little, Melody gave me a dress she didn't like. I wore it to show you, but you beat me without a word, saying I stole my sister's dress."

"You're right. I'm petty. I want everything, yet I'm never as good as her."

"Mom, just go live with my sister. I really can't stand eating leftovers anymore!"

My mother froze. She hadn't expected me to ask her to leave.

As a result, an expression of deep embarrassment spread across her face.

But her words truly hurt me. Seeing her felt like a sharp pain in my chest. So, I packed her suitcase, but for every item I put in, she took one out.

Her eyes were red and swollen, but she said nothing. She just stared at me, waiting for me to give in.

This time, I refused to endure it.

After all, she was my own mother. If she wouldn't leave, I couldn't drag her along. So I decided to take a two-week business trip to the neighboring city.

During my trip, my sister called several times. "Silvya, it's just croissants! Come back and apologize to mom. You can ask her to make as many croissants as you want."

"But remember this! She's getting old—she shouldn't have to put up with this."

I didn't say anything and just hung up.

Seeing I wasn't answering, my sister started bombarding me with messages.