"Oh, I forgot you can't drink milk. I'll get you almond milk in a moment," Mom hurriedly intervened, afraid of revealing that she cared more for her adopted daughter than me.
Dad slammed his cup on the table and scolded me irritably, "There's no need for all these special requests! You've spoiled her too much.
"She's just a child and already acts like she rules the house! We need to take Grace to arrange her school transfer soon. We don't have time to waste!"
If this had been my former self, I would have been heartbroken by these words and thrown a tantrum. Yet now, I feel only numbness.
I quietly sat in the corner of the table and noticed Grace eating with her head down, a smug smile playing at the corners of her lips. Yet when she looked up again, her little face was filled with sadness.
"Dad, please don't talk to Wendy like that. She's not like me. She'd been cherished and protected since she was little. It's natural for her to be a bit willful. It shows how much you love her."
My saintly parents were once again moved to tears. Perhaps they wondered how such an angelic little girl could exist in this world.
Meanwhile, I was cast as the spoiled child who had everything handed to her since birth, yet still couldn't behave properly. When they looked at me, their eyes reflected nothing but profound disappointment.
Nonetheless, I didn't care. I had practically severed ties with my parents in my previous life, and I no longer cared how they saw me.
I could easily please Grace if I played the role of a mindless, easily controlled little sister. Then I would still be Mom and Dad's good daughter, able to pick up the scraps of attention left over from what they gave Grace.
But I would let Grace know that the family love and affection she had schemed so hard to obtain meant nothing to me.
I had already vacated my original room when they returned home as a "family of three" after completing the school transfer procedures. I moved all my belongings to the unused nanny's quarters.
I didn't intentionally yield to Grace; I just wanted to preserve my private space.
Dad gently patted my head and said, "You're so considerate, Wendy. You're truly a good daughter of mine."
These words might have pleased a young child, but I heard the subtext, having lived through this once before. I would only be worthy of being his "good daughter" if I sympathized with Grace in everything like they did, sacrificing my own happiness to accommodate her.
Grace barged into my room uninvited to look around. Her little face suddenly turned pale when she saw the complete art set my parents had bought for me. She weakly collapsed into Mom's arms, crying.
"I wish I could draw carefree like Wendy," she sobbed.
Mom looked at me uncomfortably. She hesitated for a long time and finally said, "I'm sorry, Wendy, but could you put away your art supplies for now? To be considerate of Grace's feelings?"
There it was again. My living space had been continuously compressed since Grace's appearance, until eventually I wasn't even allowed to have my own hobbies and dreams.
It was the same in my previous life. Since Grace's eyes weren't good and she couldn't draw for extended periods, I was also forced to reduce my drawing time repeatedly.
Despite being the daughter of a painter, I couldn't freely purchase art supplies or attend training classes. It was simply because it would make Grace sad to see them.
Yet Grace could nestle in Dad's arms and learn to paint with his hand guiding hers. Each of her works was framed exquisitely, while my paintings could only be hidden at the very bottom of my art box.
