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.
