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.

Every single one of them was urging me to apologize. I couldn't even be bothered to open them.

When I returned home after my business trip, I discovered a trap waiting for me.

My father, who couldn't stand city life, had come up from the countryside especially and my aunt was there too.

My aunt was softly soothing my mother, while Melody kept giving me meaningful glances, urging me to soften my stance.

I watched everything unfold before me with a blank expression.

My aunt looked at me with disapproval as she asked, "Sylvia, no offense, but why are you counting your croissants? Your mother hasn't slept well for days because of you."

"Apologize to your mother. There's no such thing as holding a grudge overnight between mother and daughter."

I said nothing and didn't move.

The air seemed to freeze as my father opened his mouth, "You're in the wrong here. Your mother's been working so hard to take care of you. You can't just dismiss all her efforts over something this trivial, can you?"

"You can't go through life without a conscience."

He was usually a man of few words, but speaking so much this time showed he was truly upset with me.

My mother wept even harder.

Suddenly, my sister stepped in front of me and whispered softly to my mother, "Mom, it's my fault she's like this. If only I'd remembered to share the croissants from the plate, you two wouldn't have argued."

"It's all my fault, every single bit of it. Please don't be angry with her."

My mother's face softened with tenderness as she said, "Look! How could anyone not love such a sensible child? It's only right that I care for her a little more."

My aunt gave my sister a satisfied look, then spoke to me earnestly, "Sylvia, the heart naturally leans toward the left side. Besides, Melody truly deserves extra affection. There's no need to nitpick over every little thing."

Easy for her to say.

"Then do you know what gift my mother gave you for the New Year? As I recall, it was the carton of milk nearing its expiry date, right?”

“But she gave a fifty-dollar shopping voucher for another aunt."

"Auntie, do you think her favoritism is only toward her own children?"

My tone was too serious and my aunt unconsciously loosened her grip on my mother's hand.

"And on birthdays—you got a silver bracelet, right? But another aunt got a gold necklace."

"Last time both of you needed money, but my mother lent it to another aunt first."

My aunt stared at my mother in disbelief.

"Sister, is what she is saying true? Aren't we both your sisters? Why make a difference when giving gifts between your little sisters?” 

“Don't you know I needed the money for medical treatment, while her situation wasn't urgent at all compared to me?!"

My mother denied it repeatedly, "I didn't. She's making things up. She just wants to tear this family apart. Trust me!"

She glared at me, as if she wanted to tear my mouth off. But I went to my room, found a notebook and handed it to my aunt.

I smiled as I explained, "Mom, you said I'm petty and calculating, didn't you? You're right—I really am good at keeping score."

 I was petty since my mother favored my sister over me and I felt wronged. But I did not say it—I silently jotted it down in my notebook.

My mother was my primary subject of observation.

What she gave my sister versus what she gave me; what she gave my aunt versus what she gave my other aunt.

Everything I saw or heard, I recorded.

I realized my mother prioritized people.

With my sister, she seemed to pour all her love into her first. Only when there was overflow did she give me what was left.

The more she did this, the more I compared myself to my sister. 

Sometimes, I even felt like I was becoming twisted.

But as long as I was away from my mother, I was completely normal. My mother was the abnormal one.

She had a clear hierarchy of who she prioritized. She has a scale in her mind for who to treat better.

As a result, my aunt’s expression grew increasingly grim. 

She finally slammed my notebook shut, stood up abruptly, her chest heaving violently—clearly furious beyond measure.

"Haven't I been good enough to you? Whenever you had trouble, I rushed over in the middle of the night to help. I know you're closer to her, but the difference in how you treat us is too obvious."

"Even with your own children, you treat them so differently. They're your own blood relatives!"

People feared comparisons, that was why my aunt was visibly upset.

She was truly heartbroken and never imagined that her wholehearted devotion would be met with such blatant favoritism.

I interjected calmly, "Auntie, you always say people are naturally biased. Why bother arguing with mom over it?"

My sister pulled me aside, urging me to stop talking. "Sylvia, what's gotten into you? Can't you just speak nicely?"

Why should I? If I was unhappy, no one else should be either.

I slammed the notebook onto her lap and argued, "Those who profit from others shouldn't lecture me. You all share the blame for turning me into this!"

My aunt staggered, unable to utter another word of reproach.

After all, the knife only cut the deepest when it pierced your own flesh.

Ignoring my mother's calls, my aunt walked away resolutely, while my sister silently flipped through the notebook.

I continued speaking, "Melody, don't tell me you haven't noticed mom favors you more. We're all adults here—don't play dumb when you're the one benefiting. It's disgusting!"

My sister said nothing. But sometimes silence was consent.

I turned to my father in the end and inquired, "Dad, have you finally gotten over your resentment about Grandpa and Grandma favoring Uncle?"

My father smoked even more. If he had truly let it go, he wouldn't avoid my uncle every year when we come to my grandparents' graveyard.

He was still complaining about my grandparents' unfairness decades later—he had no right to lecture me.

My mother was so furious she came over to slap me. "Shut up!"

I knelt before my mother immediately, making her freeze with her hand still raised.