After I started working, I threw myself into making money even harder, not daring to rest for a single day.
Meanwhile, my sister dropped out of high school and lounged around the house doing nothing—either playing cards or shopping.
Mom always complained to me over the phone:
"Your sister has never been sensible. Mom can only rely on you."
"If one day my illness actually gets better, I'll make up for all the love I've missed giving you over the years."
I believed her.
I believed Mom loved me. She was just sick.
So when I found out the lottery ticket I'd bought had won fifty million, the first thing I did was request time off to come home and get Mom proper treatment.
I never expected to hear this cruel truth instead.
Face blindness.
Mixing up her daughters.
All of it—every single bit—was an act Mom had put on because she favored my sister.
For twenty-five years.
I was the only fool. Taking beatings, enduring scoldings, and stupidly feeling sorry for everyone else.
I stood outside the door. Suddenly, the lottery ticket in my hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
My legs went weak beneath me. I stumbled backward, unable to stop myself.
Hearing the noise, Mom turned toward the doorway.
The moment she saw me, her face—so warm and kind just seconds ago—twisted into something ugly:
"You little wretch, so you finally decided to come home? The neighbors told me you played cards all night yesterday and lost everything?"
"Do you have any idea how hard your sister works to earn money? Why can't you learn something from her?"
Mom's acting really was flawless.
If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I still wouldn't believe it—this furious disappointment at "mixing up" her daughters was all fake.
She knew perfectly well I was the one working myself to the bone.
She knew my sister was the one gambling through the night and losing money.
Yet every time I came home after a full day of work, she'd point at my exhausted face and scream at me.
Calling me a gambling addict. Calling me unfilial. Saying that giving birth to a daughter like me was punishment for sins in a past life.
But when my sister came home after an all-night card game? Mom would fuss over her with such tenderness—washing fruit for her, massaging her shoulders and back:
"You must be exhausted after working all day."
"I'll make that useless waste of a sister take care of you!"
So after exhausting myself at the company all day, I'd come home only to be ordered around like a servant for my sister—doing laundry, cooking meals.
Because whenever Mom scolded me, she'd always slip in praise for "my sister."
So I always thought that even though she'd mixed us up, at least she recognized my worth.
I never imagined it was all just a way to manipulate me.
After her tirade, Mom reached out to grab my ear, just like she always did.
I shook off her hand. Stepped back. Looked at her with no expression.
Seeing me resist her for the first time in my life, Mom froze.
A second later, rage flooded her face:
"You ungrateful wretch! You lose all that money and you dare defy me?"
"Your sister worked herself to death at the company today! Get over here and massage her back!"
My sister watched me with a smug expression, waiting for me to obey Mom like I always did and serve her like a good little attendant.
But I didn't move.
I just looked at Mom calmly and said in a flat voice:
"Mom, drop the act."
"I heard everything."
A flicker of guilt passed through Mom's eyes. Then she decided to stop pretending altogether:
"So what if you heard?"
"Good. I'm tired of putting on a show for you anyway."
"I raised you this long—that's more than enough. I've already transferred this house to your sister. Even when it gets demolished, the compensation money won't have your name on it. So don't go getting any ideas."
I found it almost laughable. I couldn't help asking:
