After I Died, They Finally Loved Me

In our family, Mom was the only princess. I was just the servant.

My father and brother adored her, doted on her, and let her unleash all her cruelty on me—her personal punching bag.

She said my birth ruined her figure, made her old and ugly. From the moment I took my first breath, she despised me.

Every year on her birthday, while the house filled with laughter, flowers, and cake, she made sure I disappeared—locked away in the attic to “reflect on my mistakes.”

That attic became my world of silence and shadows, while hers overflowed with praise and presents.