David and Linda Thompson doted on their daughter Emily as if she were the center of their world, but due to an accidental pregnancy, they had a son, Ryan. To make it up to me, they sent me to Phillips Exeter Academy, dressed me in designer clothes, and handed me everything I ever wanted. Ryan, on the other hand, only got my hand-me-downs. Everyone said I was the “rose that bloomed in the projects.” But I dragged my parents to court. If the accusation of neglecting their daughter was proven true, the one caught lying would die instantly. Everyone thought I was crazy, but only I knew the truth: they never needed me. They were always just a family of three. This is a world where every citizen can participate in trials online and vote on the verdict. In the public courtroom, I stood in a moon-white dress, my lips painted bright red, while my parents and younger brother sat beside me in their plain clothes. The contrast couldn’t have been more stark. The live stream comments were relentless in their insults: “Look at the plaintiff, all dressed up! There’s no way she’s being abused!” “I feel so bad for her parents. They can’t even afford decent clothes, yet they put their daughter through college, and now she’s turning on them?” People who knew my parents saw them as obsessed with me. Their Facebook posts were filled with pictures of me, showing off their pride and joy. They scrimped and saved to send me to a prestigious school like Phillips Exeter, while Ryan only went to Jefferson High School. Everyone called me the rose that bloomed in the projects. After I got into Stanford, I even won a National Merit Scholarship in my first semester. Everything I had was because of my parents. But according to the Supreme Constitutional Law, everyone is born equal. If a child suffers severe unfair treatment, they have the right to sue their family. If my claim turned out to be false, I would die instantly, and my organs would be donated. But if the gender bias was proven true, Ryan would die, and my parents would suffer endless misfortune. When they found out I was suing them, their faces were filled with shock. My father, David, furrowed his brow. “Emily, come back to us. There must be a misunderstanding, let’s talk this through. Don’t do anything extreme.” My mother, Linda, broke down crying. “Is it because your college expenses aren’t enough? I’ll find a way to earn more. Please, don’t risk your life! You’re the most important child we have!” The live stream audience started to feel sorry for them. “Oh man, I can’t handle seeing a mom cry. Can we just wrap this up and take down this ungrateful brat?” “I always knew spoiling girls would lead to trouble. This proves it!” I turned my head away, coldly, disgusted by the fake mask they wore. But it wouldn’t last long. “Judge, please proceed,” I said. Seeing that I insisted on going through with the trial, both of my parents’ faces flashed with unease. Suddenly, the mechanical voice of the judge silenced the crowd. “This trial will proceed by extracting six memory segments from both the plaintiff and the defendants at different stages of their lives. The jury will observe these memories from a third-person perspective and vote to determine guilt.”
The trial officially began. The first memory was projected onto the screen. It was the scene when Ryan was just born. My mom, Linda, still looked weak, while my dad, David, anxiously spoke to visiting relatives: “We never planned on having a second child. We only wanted to focus on Emily.” “But Linda had an unexpected pregnancy. By the time we found out, it was too late to have an abortion, so we had to have him.” Ryan was a premature baby and was rushed to the NICU after birth. After they brought him home, my mom made a tough decision and handed Ryan over to Grandpa John and Grandma Susan to raise. They had to work to make ends meet, so they took me—who was already in preschool—with them, while Ryan stayed with my grandparents as an infant. Even though we moved around a lot, I was happy because I stayed close to my parents. Whenever I’d stretch out my arms and yell, “Mommy, pick me up!” Linda would smile and scoop me up, snapping picture after picture of me to show off to everyone. “My precious daughter is a gift from heaven!” she would say. The live stream comments started to blow up: “Wait, gender bias? I think it’s the other way around!” “Ryan got left behind as a baby! How sad is that?” “Exactly, what kid wouldn’t want to be with their parents? Ryan got the short end of the stick.” At that moment, my mom wiped her tears and raised her hand. The judge’s cold, mechanical voice came through: “The defendants request to submit evidence.” My mom, red-eyed, pulled out two photos. In one, I was smiling brightly in my parents’ arms. In the other, Ryan was alone, crying in the apartment where he lived with Grandpa John and Grandma Susan. “We always favored Emily,” she explained, “because we were afraid she’d feel hurt once Ryan came along. So we kept her close, while Ryan… well, even if he cried his heart out, we only visited him once a year.” “No matter what we had, Emily always got the best of it. Ryan only got the leftovers.” The audience became even more emotional: “Poor parents, trying their best. You can’t treat both kids exactly the same, right?” “I can’t believe she’s suing her parents after they sacrificed so much for her. Ungrateful!” As the comments raged on, the first vote came in, and without a doubt, the jury sided with my parents. Seeing they’d won the first round, my mom finally seemed to relax a little. “Emily, please, let’s stop this. We can still go back to the way things were,” she pleaded. “I’m willing to sign a settlement, I won’t hold it against you.” My mom looked at me with desperate eyes. Ryan chimed in urgently, “Sis, please stop this. Everyone knows you’re their favorite. If this trial keeps going, you’ll die! What’s going to happen to Mom and Dad then?” “Wow, I’ve never seen defendants plead like this! She could settle and walk away without facing any consequences!” But I stayed calm and cool, turning to the judge and saying, “Let’s continue.” Because the truth, the real truth, was yet to come.
The next memory was revealed. By the time I was ten, I had already started living at school during the week. That year, during the school’s Spring Play, I danced my heart out on stage. My parents had even taken time off work to watch me perform. When the show ended, I tripped on my long dress but still scrambled up, running toward them with a big, toothy grin, one of my front teeth missing. “Mommy, how did I do?” I asked. But my mom barely paid attention, distracted. “There were too many people on stage. Where were you standing again? I couldn’t tell.” The audience was stunned. “Wait, weren’t they just watching her and smiling? I thought they were really into it!” “Emily was the lead dancer in the front row! I’m nearly blind, and even I could tell it was her. What were her parents watching?” I noticed the brief flicker of discomfort on my parents’ faces, but they quickly recovered. The scene shifted to later that same day. I sat alone in the school cafeteria, eating a cold sandwich, watching as all the other kids were picked up by their parents. I quietly cried into my food. Meanwhile, my parents had taken Ryan to Six Flags to celebrate his seventh birthday. That same week, I scored a 99 on my exam. They barely acknowledged it, telling me to aim for 100. But when Ryan scored 60, they were overjoyed. “That’s my boy! Just a little more effort, and you’ll be doing great. Last time it was 40, and now you’ve jumped up 20 points!” David said proudly. Ryan grinned, puffing his chest. “It’s easy to improve by a few points, but jumping 20? That’s talent. I’ve got way more potential than Emily!” The live stream audience started to shift their tone. “Wow, what a ridiculous comparison. Anyone knows that going from 90 to 100 is much harder.” “And this dad? Praising his son by putting down his daughter? Seriously?” At this point, Ryan got flustered. “It was my birthday! I was just a little kid; of course, my parents wanted to make me happy!” Some people defended him, pointing out that since the parents weren’t around much, it made sense to spoil Ryan a bit on his birthday. Others had different thoughts: “But Emily’s a latchkey kid too!” “Ugh, seeing her cry in the corner breaks my heart.” When the jury voted, many agreed that gender bias existed, and this round went in my favor. The screen now showed a 1-1 tie, and I could see the tension return to my mom’s face. “Emily, your mom and I have always treated you and Ryan equally, but we’re only human. Sometimes it’s impossible to keep things perfectly balanced. Can you forgive us for those moments?” she said, her voice shaky. Her words sparked sympathy again from the viewers. “Yeah, I get it. My oldest always has to give in to the younger one, but I still try to be fair.” “Right, families with multiple kids have so many little conflicts—this doesn’t seem like abuse.” As the conversation quieted, the judge released the third memory segment.
I had already lost two rounds. According to the rule of needing four wins out of six, if I lost the next one, the trial could end in a tie or, worse, a loss for me. But the memory extractor was going in chronological order. We were getting close to the memories of my high school years. There was no way they could win these. My mom, Linda, was growing increasingly anxious, practically begging me now: “Emily, please, stop this! We can’t lose you.” But I just smiled and said, “Mom, didn’t you always say I was the one you loved the most? If that’s true, why are you so afraid of the truth? If you really treated me the same as Ryan, I won’t mind dying for it.” At that moment, the system judge’s cold, robotic voice rang out, asking me if I wanted to proceed with the trial. I nodded firmly, unable to wait any longer to rip away their masks. The parents I had depended on for so long had never truly cared about me. Those hidden scars, those painful truths buried for years, were finally about to be revealed. “Honestly, aside from the Six Flags birthday trip, all the memories show them favoring their daughter. Why is she still pushing this?” “Yeah, she seems pretty calm for someone who might die. Maybe there’s something deeper going on?” The fourth memory segment appeared on the big screen. I was sixteen at the time, having just finished my high school entrance exams. I had grown tall and graceful, my face still soft and innocent, like a newborn lamb. Because I had ranked first in the entire city, I made the local newspaper, and the media even came to interview my family. The reporter asked which school I wanted to attend. I smiled brightly. “I’ve worked so hard so I could get into the best high school, just to stay close to Mom and Dad.” From elementary school to middle school, I had been living on campus, away from home. I longed to spend my high school years living with my parents. Since they worked in the city, my only chance of staying with them was if I could get into Lincoln High School. But after receiving my scholarship and the spotlight faded, my parents enrolled me in Brighton Preparatory School—a private school far out of state. The school was so far away that I wouldn’t be able to come home even once a year. The smile on my face froze. My mom hugged me, crying with tears streaming down her face. “My darling, I don’t want to send you away either, but the teachers say you’re extraordinarily gifted. We can’t let ordinary education hold you back. You’ll get a much better education at Brighton.” Principal George Michaels, a seemingly kind and elderly man in his sixties, met us in his office. He eyed me with sharp scrutiny, saying he recognized my potential and promised to nurture it well. He also assured my parents that my tuition and living expenses would be fully covered. I don’t know what else he whispered to them in hushed voices. But in the end, my parents exchanged satisfied glances and left with smiles on their faces. “What the hell is this old man up to?” “Oh my god, someone stop him!” Suddenly, shocked comments poured into the live stream. Everyone saw what happened next—after my parents left, Principal Michaels closed the door to his office. Then, with a smile still on his face, he walked over to me, ignoring my cries, and reached under my skirt.
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