I wanted to know everything.

The next morning.

I woke to find my parents bustling around the kitchen, making dumplings—chive and egg filling, my childhood favorite.

"Cecilia."

Mom took my hand. "You were right last night. Family shouldn't keep secrets. We shouldn't have hidden this from you."

"We promised to spend the New Year with you, but we can't keep that promise."

"We found work out of town. One month. It'll be enough to cover your tuition."

I looked at her.

The light in my eyes dimmed.

I never expected this.

I'd waited up all night, only to be fed another lie.

I started crying from sheer frustration.

But my parents thought I was moved.

"Don't cry, sweetheart."

Dad reached over and patted my head, then pulled an old phone and a red envelope from his pocket, pressing them into my hands.

"The phone was donated by a charity. The password is your birthday."

"The red envelope—I saved up from working overtime. All night."

He made a point of emphasizing all night.

As if afraid I wouldn't appreciate the sacrifice.

"Cecilia, just bear with things for a little while."

Mom kept crying, putting on a show of how hard it was to leave.

I said nothing.

They didn't even stay to eat the dumplings with me. A phone call came, and they rushed out the door.

Leaving me alone in the cold, empty rental.

I sat down and noticed the red envelope felt wrong. I tore it open.

It wasn't money.

It was a photo of Dad, Mom, and Cynthia.

Behind them: a villa, the ocean, three radiant smiles.

I knew who had put it there.

Cynthia.

My parents only needed to squeeze the envelope once to notice something was off. They hadn't bothered.

I turned to the phone, wondering what else awaited me. I entered my birthday to unlock it.

Inside were photos and videos of Cynthia. Hundreds of them.

Documenting every year since the day my parents adopted her.

Birthday gifts that changed each year—diamonds, designer bags, sports cars, a villa.

Red envelopes stuffed with gold bars, year after year.

Obscene luxury.

Another taunt. Cynthia making sure I understood.

Buzz buzz!

The phone vibrated. An incoming call.

I answered without thinking, and Cynthia's voice poured through.

"Do you know why Mom and Dad aren't spending the holiday with you?"

Blunt. Direct.

I froze, then the answer crystallized.

"They're traveling with you."

Cynthia let out a soft laugh. "So you finally understand where you stand with them."

"Stop dreaming about being some rich family's precious daughter. Stop clinging to my parents like a leech."

"You were oxygen-deprived at birth. Slow. Defective. How could you possibly represent the Henson family? How could you ever compete with me?"

Each word sliced through me like winter wind, chilling me to the bone.

"But... then..."

My voice shook. "Then why did they come back for me? Why would they—"

"Guilt."

Cynthia's laugh turned mocking. "The richer people get, the more they fear karma. Understand?"

"Or maybe it's just pity."

I had no response.

"Keep the phone. Make sure to check the photos on the messaging app. See how much fun we're having."

She hung up.

I staggered backward and collapsed onto the floor. Everything inside me threatened to explode. I wanted to scream.

Instead, I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood, forcing it all back down.

Eventually, I dragged myself to my feet.

Without them—

I could survive on my own.

Sure, I was a little slow as a kid—but that wasn't my fault!

I worked hard to overcome it. I earned my way into an elite university with outstanding grades. I was leagues ahead of Cynthia.

Like every other child at the orphanage, I was one of Grandma's perfect kids.

After packing my things, I trudged through the wind and snow to the now-empty orphanage and lined up a few part-time jobs to prepare for college life.

As for tuition—my grades had earned me a full scholarship.

I'd wanted to test my parents. They didn't have to give me a single cent. All I needed was some sign that they loved me.

Instead, they spun the same lies they had ten years ago.

But I wasn't a child anymore.

During those weeks of working odd jobs, I saw Cynthia's social media posts.

New Year's Eve.

My parents threw her a welcome-home banquet. Fireworks exploded across the sky—all for her.

I was in a restaurant kitchen, scrubbing dishes. The owner took pity on me and pulled me aside to share some dumplings.

New Year's Day.

My parents took Cynthia hiking to a temple shrouded in mist at the mountain's peak, where they made wishes together.

I visited Grandma's grave.

Day two.

They cruised around the harbor on a yacht, sipping red wine.

I sold roasted sweet potatoes in the bitter cold.

Day three.

They went skiing.

Cynthia took a fall, and my parents fussed over her like she might break.

That same morning, I slipped on the icy road while pushing my vegetable cart to the market. I bit down on the pain, hauled myself up, and kept going.

One month.

The three of them lived it up without a care in the world.

I ran myself ragged.

The day before my flight, I bought a bouquet of carnations and laid them at Grandma's grave.

"Grandma," I whispered. "Someday I'm going to build a bigger place—one that can take in even more kids."

That same day, my parents texted me:

"We're sorry, Cecilia. We just couldn't scrape together enough for tuition and living expenses."

"Maybe defer for a year? Start next fall instead?"

I laughed coldly, didn't bother replying, and boarded my flight.

Orientation day.

I was hauling my suitcase toward the registration building when a luxury car came speeding up and cut me off.

Cynthia stepped out, laughing at something our parents said. All three of them looked like they'd just stepped out of a magazine spread.

I froze.

Our eyes met.

The smiles on my parents' faces turned to stone. "Cecilia?" my father stammered. "What are you doing here?"