She stared at me, frozen.
“Sis……”
“Oh, stop!” I waved a magnanimous hand. “From now on, you're my big sister, period. Anybody in this house gives you a hard time, they go through me.”
My mom coughed from the living room.
I walked out, pulled her into the kitchen, and dropped my voice. ：“Mom, eventually this house will be hers and not yours. But not yet. If you fight with her, Dad gets upset and the neighbors call you cruel. It's not worth it.”
My mom went still.
In my last life I'd been a firecracker, even louder than she was.
And where did that get me?
My dad threatened divorce. Said this house had no room for his daughter, so he'd take her and leave.
In the end I was the one who caved, and I came out looking bad to everyone.
This time around, I understood.
A hard knife kills—and you pay with your life.
A soft knife destroys from the inside.
Bridget moved in.
The first few days she was careful. Spoke little, moved quietly, got up twenty minutes before me every morning to make her bed.
I acted like I didn't notice.
Then came the weekend when my dad was actually home for dinner.
My mom had cooked a full spread.
But Bridget took one tiny bite of greens and worked her way through half a bowl of plain white rice.
My dad watched her. ：“Why aren't you eating any meat?”
She shook her head, voice barely there. ：“My stomach's not great. I try to keep things light.”
My dad's expression darkened for a second.
I knew exactly what he was thinking.
How much had this kid suffered out there, that she didn't even dare eat meat.
In my last life, this was the moment I'd been gnawing a spare rib. I muttered “Drama queen” and got chewed out for it, my allowance docked for half a month.
This time, I set my chopsticks down.
Let my eyes go red.
“Bridget—you think this house has no place for you, don't you?” My voice shook. “Is it because I'm here? Is that why you won't even touch the food?”
Bridget froze.
My dad froze.
I swiped at my tears and let my voice climb. ：“Dad! Look at her! She won't even eat meat in her own home—just one bite of greens! How much did she go through out there to make herself this small?”
Bridget opened her mouth. ：“That's not it, sis……”
“Of course it is!” I choked out the words as I piled ribs onto her plate, then fish. “You're only three months older than me. We're real sisters! If you leave all the meat for me, how am I supposed to eat it?”
My mom looked up at me, her eyes spelling out four words：Have you lost your mind?
I gave her a quick wink.
The next second, I cried for real.
Not wailing. The kind where your whole face burns red and the tears come heavy and fast and your lips won't stop shaking.
“Dad……she's had it so hard……look how thin she is, look at her hands……”
Her hands really were rough, all bone and tendon. Not the hands of a sixteen-year-old girl.
My dad's expression cracked.
He probably never imagined his loud, impulsive little girl could feel this much for the daughter he'd failed all those years.
He was quiet for a moment, then placed a piece of meat in Bridget's bowl. ：“Eat. This family can spare you a bite.”
Bridget looked at the meat in her bowl, her lips moved slightly, and she ate it.
I knew she wasn't happy.
Her whole plan had been to play “the girl who suffers in silence” and milk the sympathy.
But I'd stolen her script.
Once someone hijacks your martyr act, how are you supposed to play the lead?
That was the day I became everyone's perfect little sister.
She got up early to make her bed? I got up earlier.
She scored well and Dad praised her.
I was the first to clap. ：“My sister's incredible! She pulled these grades growing up out there—imagine what she'd have done if she'd been with us the whole time!”
My dad kept his head down and ate, didn't say a word.
But his face said it plain：Yeah. I owe this kid.
She'd demur. ：“You work hard too, sis.”
I'd jump right in. ：“I'm just slow. Nowhere near as good as my sister. But that's okay. She can tutor me from now on, and I'll definitely improve.”
