When my parents divorced, they fought over who got to keep my little sister. As for me, they couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. In the end, I was handed off to my dad. My mom, clutching my sister’s hand, stood by and sneered as she watched my father slap me across the face. “Hit her harder,” she said with a smirk. “Beat her to death and save yourself the trouble of raising her.” That was the day I moved into my father’s new home and met his new wife. She scooped me up the moment I walked through the door. “From now on, I’m your mother. Got it?” Years later, I bought her a villa and a luxury car. Meanwhile, the woman who gave birth to me was lying in a hospital bed, weeping as she begged me to save her. I smiled as I gently pried her fingers off my wrist. “Just die in peace, will you?” My parents had been divorced for less than six months when my father remarried. She was three years younger than him and divorced, too. On the day of the wedding, my father locked me in a storage room and warned me, “You cause any trouble, I’ll beat you to death.” When the guests had left and the house quieted down, I slipped into the kitchen. While making myself dinner, I accidentally knocked over the kettle. Boiling water splashed across my chest. I screamed. The next moment, the opposite door creaked open, and a woman rushed in. “What happened? Where did it burn?” She scooped me into her arms. She smelled nice, like something faint and floral. “You must be Yara, right?” I nodded, eyes darting to the dried fruits on her bed. My stomach growled, but I didn’t dare take any when she offered. “Please,” I whispered, “don’t tell my dad.” “Why not?” “The bottle broke… He’ll hit me.” She paused for a beat, then said, “I won’t tell him.” “I don’t believe you. Let’s pinky promise.” She held out her pinky. “Deal.” I devoured the food like a starved animal. She watched me for a while, then laughed softly. “You know who I am?” I shook my head. “Starting today, I’m your mom.” My hands froze. My mind instantly flashed through every fairy tale I’d ever read—Snow White and her evil stepmother, Cinderella and her scheming one. I was doomed. I stared at her like a deer in headlights. Then she frowned. “What’s on your pants?” Panic surged. I scrambled off the bed, only to see a dark stain soaking through the sheet. Mortified, I dashed for the bathroom. She caught me by the arm. “Why aren’t you using pads? You’re on your period.” My face went crimson. It felt like being slapped. “Don’t say that word!” “What word?” “That… that one.” She blinked. “You mean period? What’s wrong with saying it? Didn’t anyone teach you?” I said nothing. She studied my face, and something in her expression changed. The first time I got my period, I ruined my pants. One of my classmate’s moms told me it meant I was growing up. She said it was something to celebrate, that maybe my own mom would make me something special for dinner. I went home excited. Before I could speak, my mom slapped me so hard my ears rang. She kicked me to the floor and yelled loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “Whoring around all day with your ass on display, trying to get some man’s attention, huh? If you want it that bad, just forget school! Go dance at a club and see which idiot takes you in!” I clutched my pants, stammering some kind of explanation, but she cut me off with another slap. “Who’s going to wash that? Me? What do you think I am, your maid? You need to be disgusting every damn day, don’t you?” I was ten that year, and I spent the rest of that day kneeling on the bathroom floor. “Mom, I’m still bleeding…” “Bleed all you want. What do you want me to do about it? Get out of my sight, you filthy little thing.” I had never used pads. Whenever I had a period, it was a nightmare of humiliation. Every month, I shoved tissues in my underwear and hoped it would be enough. If I used too many, she called me selfish. If I bled through, the boys at school would whistle and jeer. My mother would sneer. “Acting like some tragic virgin princess? Please. You were born to be cheap.” Later, I found out she’d taken her anger out on me that day because my sister had a sore on her face, something that would mess up a shoot they’d scheduled. That night, my stepmother taught me how to use a pad for the first time. She said it wasn’t something to be ashamed of. Then she hugged me tight and looked me in the eye. “From now on, I’m your mom. Got it?”
My sister was beautiful, with big eyes and smooth skin. We were blood-related, but you’d never guess it. She started modeling when she was still in diapers, earning good money and soaking up everyone’s attention like a little sun goddess. I’d heard it more times than I could count. “If only Tracy had been born first… there’d be no need for Yara.” Even our names made it clear who mattered. When Tracy was born, my parents tore through baby name books, even consulted a fortune-teller to make sure she had the perfect name, one that promised her happiness, success, and good luck. Me? They just randomly named me Yara because I never mattered to them. During the divorce, they both clung to one of Tracy’s arms and nearly came to blows over her custody. “Tracy, honey, come with Mommy. I’ll buy you the prettiest princess dress and take you abroad!” “Don’t listen to your mother. Daddy loves you most. I already bought you a new house!” They bickered while the judge awkwardly took my hand and asked, “So… who wants custody of the elder daughter?” Both of them stepped back. One mumbled something about financial strain, the other claimed they weren’t nurturing enough. In the end, Tracy went with Mom. She nearly grinned from ear to ear. Dad, furious, slapped me across the face. “You cursed thing! I should’ve drowned you the day you were born!” Mom just stood there laughing. “Hit her harder! Kill her if you want, saves you the trouble of raising her.” So I curled up into a tight ball and kept my mouth shut. I learned early—no talking meant fewer beatings. But when my stepmother came into the picture, things started changing. She brushed my hair, made me breakfast, and walked me to school. She even bought me new clothes. For the first time in years, my fingers weren’t cracked and bleeding from winter frost. Mom’s side of the family didn’t take it well. “She’s just pretending,” Grandma sneered. “All stepmothers are gold-digging witches. Mark my words. She’s just after that man’s money.” Once, I defended Ella, my stepmom. Grandma grabbed her cane and whacked me across the legs. “Ungrateful little brat! That woman’s only been here a few days, and you’ve already forgotten your real mother? No wonder nobody wants you!” Another time, Ella took me shopping, and I wandered off. A car hit me. I had five stitches in my scalp. When I opened my eyes, the woman who hadn’t texted me all year was bawling beside my bed. “Oh, my poor daughter! It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry…” I shoved her away. She looked startled for a second, then turned on Ella. “You bitch! You dare hurt my child? Think you can just steal my family? You better explain yourself today, or I swear…” Her whole clan was with her, yelling and spitting, demanding answers. I stepped in front of Ella. “I tripped. It wasn’t her fault.” Mom wrapped her arms around me, twisting me toward the crowd. Her perfume clung to my skin like poison. “Look what she’s done! She’s traumatized the child so bad she’s lying for her!” I shook her off. “Are you done performing? What are you filming for this time?” Her expression froze. She glanced around in a panic and noticed that the photographer was long gone. It was all for show. Tracy had recently caught a talent scout’s eye, and Mom couldn’t risk the public seeing her as a neglectful parent. She wanted to use Ella as a scapegoat to boost her own image. Too bad I wasn’t playing along. “I’ve just been busy lately… You know I still care about you,” she mumbled. “Yeah? Then you can pay my hospital bill. It’s six hundred bucks.” She twisted her fingers, started crying about how hard it was raising Tracy alone and how heartless I was for asking. But sunlight caught the emerald bracelet on her wrist, glittering like it had its own spotlight. Ella had stayed quiet the whole time. Then she stood, took the bill, and smacked it against Mom’s face. “I paid it. Now get out.” Mom shut up real fast.
Ella wasn’t rich. If she were, she wouldn’t have married a loser like my dad. He controlled all the money in the house. Every time I needed to pay for class materials, he’d glare at me with those deep, spiteful eyes, yank a few crumpled bills from his wallet, and slap them onto my head. “School, school, school! All you do is ask for money! Raising you costs more than raising a damn pig! “Why the hell should I spend my money on you? Figure it out yourself next time. Can’t pay? Then get your ass to the factory and work!” While I stressed about every meal and every bill, Emilio Hanks found me. He tossed a few bills my way like breadcrumbs. “Hey. Wanna make a deal?” He was a year below me, a known troublemaker. He once punched a pregnant teacher so hard she lost her baby. His parents barely blinked; they just wrote a nearly million-dollar check and called it a day. Rich kids. They were untouchable. He had a thing for my sister Tracy. But they’d had a fight and hadn’t spoken for days. Now he wanted to use me to make her jealous. I glanced at the money; it looked like over a thousand. For me, it was a small fortune. When I crouched down to pick up the cash, he looked at me like I was a dog accepting scraps. “So? Easy money, right?” “What exactly do you want me to do?” He smirked. “Write some poetic apology letters. Then fold a thousand paper cranes with ‘Tracy, I love you’ written on them. Maybe grab lunch with me a few times.” “Not enough.” “What?” I slipped the bills into my pocket. “Letters, cranes, lunch… These are all separate charges. Negotiate properly.” He hesitated. I egged him on. “What? Don’t tell me you don’t really love Tracy.” His face flushed with pride and rage. “Screw it. Here!” He threw three grand at me. Sure enough, a few days later, Tracy couldn’t sit still anymore. When she saw us chatting, her lips trembled. She looked like she wanted to claw my face off. One afternoon, my dad blew up my phone, asking me to drop something off for Tracy. No one was in the classroom, so I shoved the bag into her desk and left. The next morning, she stormed into the teacher’s office, crying like the world was ending. “Yara,” she sobbed, “you can hate me all you want, but how could you steal that money?”
Tracy was a class officer. She’d lost three thousand bucks, money meant for the class book fees. I asked for the security footage. The teacher sighed. “Sorry, system’s down. Been under maintenance all week.” Tracy looked at me, eyes glistening. “It’s okay, Yara. If you just admit what you did, I can help pay it back. And… please don’t hang out with Emilio anymore. What if something scandalous happens…” The room fell silent. My biological mom burst in first. She didn’t even ask questions. She charged at me and kicked me square in the chest. “You filthy slut! It’s bad enough you’re throwing yourself at boys, and now you’re corrupting your sister too?” Tracy flinched back, looking perfectly innocent. “Did I say something wrong? But I really did see Yara and Emilio in the woods yesterday…” My mom shrieked, “Don’t be afraid, Tracy! She’s trash. Her dad doesn’t care, so today I will teach this bastard a lesson!” I stood up, laughing hysterically. “Yeah, I’m trash. I’m the bastard. I’ve got a mom who gave birth to me but didn’t raise me. Might as well be dead!” “What did you say? You cursed me, you little whore!” My mom lunged again just as the office door slammed open. Ella stepped inside and pulled me behind her like a lioness defending her cub. “I’m Yara’s legal guardian. You want to scream at someone, scream at me. What kind of grown-ass woman only knows how to beat up children? Not afraid of karma?” “Oh yeah? Let’s talk about karma then! What about the money Yara stole?” Ella crouched beside me and brushed a hand over my cheek. “Sweetheart, is it true?” I shook my head. My mom lost it again. “She’s lying! She’s just like her father, garbage in, garbage out!” “Where’s the proof?” Ella asked. “I saw it with my own eyes!” Tracy jumped in. Ella’s gaze pinned her to the wall. “Really? So whatever you say must be true? Then I could say you stole it. How would that feel? “You’re smart, Tracy. But too much scheming isn’t clever. Don’t assume everyone around you is stupid.” Then she turned to my mom. “And you. I could sue you for beating up my girl without any evidence! Besides, you teachers just stood there watching while a child was assaulted. What the hell are you even here for?” The homeroom teacher gave a fake smile, trying to defuse the situation. “Well, there’s no proof either way, so maybe we just… drop it?” “I have proof,” I said calmly. Free Point I released the video and watched my mother’s face cycle from pale to crimson, like a balloon filled too tight, just waiting to pop.
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