Chapter 8: The Forgotten Daughter

Because of this, my parents even gave me a special talk:

They sat me down over burnt coffee and said, “Don’t take it to heart. Your sister can’t dance anymore—she’s upset, only Derek can comfort her!” As if my feelings were just inconvenient background noise.

My parents had always favored Lillian since we were little.

She was the golden child, the one who got the biggest slice of cake and the loudest applause at every recital. I was the quiet one, always with my nose in a book, content to fade into the background.

She was beautiful, had good grades, and most importantly, was talented in singing and dancing.

Every trophy on her shelf was a reminder of how she sparkled, how the world bent to her will. I tried not to envy her, but some things are impossible to ignore.

And I was just a bookworm—boring, not good at making people happy.

I found solace in libraries and rainstorms, never quite learning how to dazzle a room. I wore glasses and hand-me-downs, comfortable with my place on the sidelines.

Everyone revolved around the injured Lillian.

It was like the world shrank to a single axis—the Sanders house became her stage, and we were just extras.

Including my husband.

Derek was always there, hovering by her side, his concern bordering on obsession. I watched from the doorway, a ghost in my own marriage.

He gradually lost patience with me.

He stopped texting me back, stopped asking about my day. Even his silences became colder, edged with irritation.

That evening, he promised to pick me up, but left me waiting in the rain for two hours.

I stood under the flickering streetlight, soaked to the bone, hugging myself for warmth. My phone battery died, and still I waited, stubborn hope burning low.

I caught a cold and came down with a high fever.

The next morning, I woke shivering and feverish, blankets twisted around my legs. It felt like my body had finally caught up with my broken heart.