In the end, my daughter didn’t get to go to school with my son.
It seemed Olivia and her family had begun to notice how much my daughter resembled her husband. Fearing their secret might be exposed, they acted quickly.
A week later, my daughter was moved out of the house.
Olivia claimed my daughter had become increasingly unruly, often teaching my son bad habits. “I can’t let her stay here and corrupt the young sir,” she declared with feigned righteousness.
She announced her plan to send my daughter back to her hometown, where her grandparents would “take care of her.”
Suspicious, I secretly had someone investigate. The truth was far more chilling. Olivia hadn’t sent my daughter away but had rented a nearby house. There, she kept my daughter tied to a bed with a rope, severely restricting her movements.
Olivia visited only once a day, slipping in quietly to leave a pot of plain porridge. That was the extent of her care. She treated my daughter like an unwanted burden, left to endure her misery alone.
On my son’s tenth birthday, I insisted that Olivia bring my daughter to the celebration. I wanted to see her, even if just for a moment.
When my daughter appeared, my breath caught, and tears threatened to spill. No amount of preparation could have softened the blow.
She was frighteningly thin, her frail frame resembling that of a five or six-year-old child. She walked with a limp, one leg clearly broken and never properly treated.
But the worst was her face. It was disfigured, marred with burn scars that twisted her delicate features.
I knew immediately why they had done this. My husband and I had once commented that she bore a faint resemblance to him. Because of that, they mutilated her.
The realization hit me like a knife to the heart—Olivia and her family were more ruthless than I had imagined.
As I stood there in stunned silence, Olivia caught my gaze. Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles, a smile so cold it sent shivers down my spine.
Olivia raised her hand and pinched her daughter’s scarred face with a mockingly sweet smile.
“This silly girl,” she said, feigning pity. “She poured hot water on herself and got scalded. Such a clumsy child. It’s a good thing I sent her back to the countryside; otherwise, you, Madam, would have had to spend a fortune dealing with this.”
Her words were like poison, and my body shook with anger.
“You gave birth to a daughter but didn’t raise her properly,” I said, my voice trembling. “You’ve ruined her life, and when she grows up, she’ll hate you for everything you’ve done. You’ll regret it one day.”
Olivia sneered, her expression void of remorse. “Regret? You think I’ll regret this? The fact that Misty is still alive is the greatest gift I’ve given her. Look at her! She’s lucky to even have that.”
She continued with an air of triumph. “There’s even a second-rate fool from the village who fancies her. He’s willing to marry her once she grows up. Imagine that—a silly girl like her, with someone waiting for her! Isn’t that more than she deserves?”
My husband and mother-in-law burst into laughter, clutching their stomachs, their faces filled with admiration for Olivia’s cold-hearted “pragmatism.” Their approval was blatant, a shared acknowledgment of her ruthless cunning.
I stood there, staring at them, disappointment weighing heavily on me. Words failed me in the face of their vile indifference.
I took my daughter into the house, determined to give her the birthday she had likely never dared to hope for. For one evening, I tried to make her feel loved, if only to counter the years of neglect she had endured.
But the reprieve was short-lived. After the celebration, Olivia wasted no time sending her daughter away again.
Before they left, I bought my daughter as many gifts as I could, hoping to brighten her bleak existence even slightly. Deep down, though, I knew the truth—Olivia would never let her keep them. She wouldn’t allow my daughter to experience even a shred of kindness from me.
I said nothing, forcing myself to focus on the sliver of hope that my daughter, despite everything, was still alive.
In the days that followed, I buried myself in work, often staying at the office overnight. My absence seemed to please my husband and his family, as it allowed them to revel in their twisted version of harmony without my interference.
Through surveillance, I saw them laughing and enjoying each other’s company, a grotesque display of unity built on cruelty.
As time went on, Olivia grew increasingly bold, her actions becoming more outrageous. One day, she even cornered her son privately, asking him, "Tell me, do you love me more or your mother?"
Her son, despite being spoiled by their indulgence, had a remarkably clear sense of right and wrong. He shot her an annoyed glare and replied, "Of course I love my mother. Aren't you just the nanny my family hired to take care of me?"
Olivia froze, stunned by his bluntness, but he wasn’t finished. "If it weren’t for my mom working hard to earn money, all of us would starve. And if you say anything bad again, I’ll tell my mom!"
Olivia’s face turned an angry shade of blue. She wanted to lash out but held herself back, knowing she couldn’t risk further exposing herself.
That night, while reviewing the surveillance footage, I watched as Olivia gathered my husband and mother-in-law in the living room, her face twisted with resentment.
“I’ve had enough!” she snapped, her voice trembling with frustration. “I’m fed up with this life! I raised such an excellent son for this family, and yet he only sees me as a nanny! A nanny!”
