It was because they were afraid others would find out I was the daughter of the famous philanthropist couple and treat me too well.
They always lectured me:
"We work ourselves to the bone to help people, not so you can enjoy special privileges."
To make sure no one discovered our relationship, they registered my household under my grandmother's name out in the countryside.
They never attended a single parent event for me. Growing up, I was constantly mocked as an orphan.
But Adela was different.
By adopting the daughter of a murderer and refusing to let the sins of the previous generation affect an innocent child, my parents became nationally celebrated philanthropists.
So they poured all their love and attention into Adela.
They lifted her up, accompanied her to performances and events. They even let her open social media accounts under the name "Daughter of the Fox Philanthropists," turning her into an influencer.
When I confronted my parents about their favoritism, their only explanation was:
"The whole country knows she's our daughter now. Of course we have to take good care of her. Otherwise people will criticize your father and me!"
"You're our daughter—you'll be fine no matter what. But Adela came from such a pitiful background. Naturally we have to favor her a little more..."
...
If my father hadn't kicked me over, maybe I could have wheeled myself somewhere to hide.
But now I could only lie helpless on the floor as the killer climbed through the broken window and dragged me away.
My broken nails clawed grooves into the floorboards.
He tied me to the back of his car like a dead dog and dragged me to an abandoned warehouse in Southside.
Ten kilometers of dirt road. Half my body was ground raw. One arm snapped.
When the pain peaked, I nearly blacked out, but I still forced myself to keep dialing for help.
Call after call to emergency services. Disconnected, every single time.
The moment the car stopped, I sent one last text.
"Killer is in Southside. Save me."
This time, someone finally answered.
Hearing my garbled screams through the phone, my mother went silent.
Then she snapped:
"Gertrude! Do you have any idea that tonight, every emergency line in the city is waiting for tips about the killer?"
"You've been jealous of your sister and clogging the hotlines with prank calls! Do you realize that if a real victim tried to call during that time, you could have gotten them killed? How are you any different from that murderer?"
Her voice turned cold:
"Don't bother calling anymore. We've had every hotline block your number."
Then her tone shifted to bitter resentment:
"Do you have any idea? Now everyone knows that our biological daughter was so jealous she abused the emergency system and interfered with the operation. You've completely humiliated your father and me! How did I give birth to such a vicious, selfish daughter? If only you could take Adela's place in being scared for her life! Or better yet—die in place of those innocent victims!"
Before she finished, the killer crushed my phone under his boot.
I stared at the scarred, hideous man in front of me, my whole body shaking uncontrollably.
He bared his yellow teeth and ground his heel down on my fingers, snapping all ten.
My screams were swallowed by the storm.
He strung me up from the rafters and recited every grievance he'd nursed against my parents over the years.
With each one, he carved another cut into my body.
When he got to his biological daughter—Adela—a gleam flickered in his eyes, and he looked at me with satisfaction.
