Jane clutched her face and stormed out of my room.

Moments later, my door was kicked in with a vengeance.

Mom's eyes, blazing with raw fury, saw her flinging a porcelain cup straight at my head.

It struck my forehead, slicing a thin line of blood across my skin.

Mom paused, her voice thick with rage, "If you're just here to start trouble, get the hell out. This is my house!"

"What did I ever do to deserve a nightmare like you?"

My hand was clenched so tight, it hurt.

Looking at her, I was at a loss for words, every attempt to speak choked off.

The pain in my palm was nearly unbearable.

After a long silence, I managed a weak smile, "Mom, your present hasn't arrived yet. How could I leave? I've got to be here for your birthday."

Mom's glance was cold as ice, "I couldn't care less about your gifts. Just stop pissing me off for once, that'd be a miracle."

But hey, Mom, you're stuck with the mess you made.

Blood streamed down, blurring one of my eyes.

Mom looked away with a huff, "Can't even dodge? Absolutely pathetic."

She probably couldn't stand the sight of me anymore and slammed the door hard enough to shake the walls.

Then she took Jane out to the carnival.

Jane's latest post popped up on social media: "Got this charm from Mom, keeping us all safe and sound. Gonna grab one for you too, Nora!"

I turned off my phone, done with the drama.

She always did the same act with her, endlessly curating her sweet little sister persona.

I got ready and stepped out, seizing the day with whatever strength I had left.

Switched up to my coolest wig before I left.

It was a favorite back in my boxing days.

The streets buzzed with energy, a river of people flowing back and forth.

Kids in festive gear were hoisted high by their dads, their laughter mingling with the glow of their lanterns.

Moms snapped photos, their adoration framed in each shot.

I found myself smiling, but it didn't last.

There was a time when I was the one on Dad's shoulders, smothered in Mom's adoration.

Suddenly, it all felt meaningless.

After snacking on some street food, I was heading home when I spotted a puppy scavenging near a trash can.

It looked barely a few months old.

Figured it felt as lonely as I did, so I squatted down, "Hey there, buddy, follow me and I'll treat you to some real food."

It seemed to understand and scurried over, pawing gently at my hand.

Ticklish, yet comforting.

I took it to a pet clinic to make sure it was okay. Luckily, no injuries, so I got it vaccinated and cleaned up, even snagged a few adorable outfits.

Cradling it in my arms, I stroked its fluffy head, "Little guy, stick with me for the ride. When my time's up, I'll find you a loving home, okay?"

It didn't hesitate, snuggled up and dozed off after eating.

I kept it hidden in my bag to dodge any nagging from Mom.

By the time I got back, dusk had settled and Mom and Jane were midway through dinner.

Plates of large shrimp, neatly peeled, sat before Jane.

"Dig in, Jane."

"Mom, I'm a grown woman, I can peel my own shrimp."

"Age doesn't change a thing, you'll always be my baby and I'll always enjoy doing this for you."

Their perfect little mother-daughter show...

So enviable.

Jane, seeing me, chirped cheerfully, "Nora, Mom's been cooking. Come try some."

A glance revealed an empty pot and shrimp shells scattered everywhere.

Typical. She "cooked", but clearly not with me in mind.

"I've told you before, I'm not your sister, and you don't earn that title."

Without looking up, Mom slammed her fork down, "I've warned you, if you can't be nice, you can just leave."

She expected me to say something, probably gearing up to chew me out, but seeing me silent, her anger flared.

"Can't even let the year end without making a scene, huh? Who are you dolling up for with all that makeup?"

"And that hairdo, you think it makes you look cool? People laugh behind your back, you're clueless about how much you embarrass yourself."

My dreadlocks weren't her style—too wild, too out there compared to her taste for the serene.

We had clashed over this hairstyle more times than I could count.

And it was still a sore point for her.

She snapped, grabbed scissors, and blurted out, "Cut it off now or leave and never come back."

When she yanked my hair, I pushed back. In the struggle, clumps of my hair came out in her hands.

What was left of my once full head of hair now lay bare.

Many rounds of chemo had taken their toll.

Mom stopped dead, her face turning white.

The scissors clattered to the floor.

She tried to speak, then stopped, words failing her.

A knot tightened in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

Was she finally seeing me? How could I even begin to explain?

Your late regrets, I've got no use for them.