"No need. Wherever I go, do I still need to report to her?"
"Old Mr. Fox, hurry up and hang up, stop talking so much. Just hearing her voice is annoying, like a debt collector. She can't even settle down for two days."
Before Dad hung up, I asked him:
"Aren't you and Mom traveling? Why does it sound like Vivian's there too?"
He coughed twice. I could practically hear him scrambling for an excuse.
"Oh, it's like this—your sister isn't doing well. Bit of postpartum depression. Your mom thought getting out would help her relax."
"Vivian's baby has a postpartum nanny. We found her through connections back home—cheap. You didn't want outsiders caring for your kid before, so your mom didn't mention it. Alex, don't overthink this."
After hanging up, I felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head.
Don't overthink it—yet they did exactly what would make me overthink.
Eight years ago, when Vivian moved in, I knew this family was going to change.
Little me didn't know how to express the unease, so I could only throw fits at home.
Demanding the newest backpack. Demanding pretty notebooks.
As if Dad and Mom agreeing meant I still had a place in their hearts.
I got the backpack. The notebooks are still in my cabinet today.
But after that, Dad and Mom drifted further and further away.
They thought I was immature. That I wouldn't be a good older sister. That I wouldn't take care of Vivian on my own.
When I was sad and crying hard, all I ever heard were lectures.
"You're the older sister—you have to set an example. Look at you crying like this. If Vivian sees, what will she think? That we abuse children?"
"Vivian's parents died horribly. Your dad and I can't just abandon her. She's your real sister now. Be more sensible. When we're not around, take care of her."
When I cried so hard I couldn't breathe, Mom used up her last shred of patience.
"Alex Fox, look at yourself! You can't even compare to a single strand of your sister's hair. Vivian lost her biological parents and she didn't cry like you! I'm so disappointed in you!"
After that, all of Dad and Mom's attention went to Vivian.
Along with their love.
I thought once I started working, if I just sent them more money, their eyes would finally land on me again.
A million dollars later, I didn't even get a smile.
That's when I learned some things can't be bought.
Vivian and I fell in love around the same time. Got our hearts broken by scumbags around the same time.
I got divorced. She had a breakup.
Dad and Mom rushed off to comfort her without a second thought.
And me? All I got was:
"All you do is bury yourself in work. Why would anyone stay married to you? No wonder he left."
"Well, now it's done. Family's broken. You can keep working. Go on—no one's stopping you."
My son's crying pulled me back to reality.
One hand holding him, one hand gripping the utility card, I used every ounce of strength I had left to get the lights back on and the water running.
After mixing his formula, he fell asleep fast.
I changed his diaper in a blur, washed the bottle.
Dead tired.
When I finally opened my phone to unwind, I saw Vivian had posted another video.
In it, Mom helped her rock the baby to sleep.
Vivian sat on the balcony soaking in sunlight, her cheeks still carrying that girlish sweetness—so much collagen it practically spilled off the screen.
Dad walked over right on cue with a plate of cut fruit. Half of it was imported cherries I could never bring myself to buy.
The caption read:
"Dad and Mom say I'll always be eighteen in their eyes~ Always the little princess of the family~"
