Chapter 2: The Foster Daughter’s Place

I am a foster daughter.

But not all foster daughters are the same. Trust me—I’ve seen enough come and go in this house to know the difference.

Mrs. Zhao is favored, so her daughter—my eldest sister—has been cherished by Father since childhood. She always has new dresses from Nordstrom every season, while I patch up hand-me-downs from the Salvation Army.

Third Sister’s birth mom is Mother’s old sorority friend from UCLA. To keep her social standing, Mom treats Third Sister well. She even got her own car at sixteen—a white Honda Civic with a pink steering wheel cover. Must be nice.

Every sister here has her own safety net. Their mothers play tennis together at the country club and gossip over mimosas at Sunday brunch.

Me? I have nothing.

I’m the invisible foster daughter, the one nobody even mentions at family dinners.

My birth mother was a maid who tried to climb up—she spiked Father’s bourbon one night, slipped into his bed, and after a single desperate night, she had me. The servants whispered about it for years, calling her pathetic and reckless.

She wasn’t pretty—just another invisible woman scrubbing floors. Father never gave her status. When she got pregnant, she suffered. Couldn’t eat a full meal without someone mocking her, and childbirth was brutal—no epidural, no private room, just the county hospital’s charity ward. She died after having me.

Everyone says I was malnourished in the womb and grew up stupid. They say it with fake sympathy, shaking their heads like I’m a living cautionary tale.

But I’m not stupid.

I’m smart. Smart enough to survive here for eighteen years.

I know the rules: Eldest Sister is jealous, Third Sister is weak, so I must cling to Second Sister to survive. It’s simple—align with the strongest player who isn’t quite on top. The runner-up always needs loyal backup.

I follow my stepsister around like a golden retriever, always calling her “Sister.” If she says go east, I don’t even glance west. If she wants a latte from the city at 10 PM, I’m grabbing keys before she finishes the sentence.

I’m a lackey. But being a lackey keeps you alive.

She’ll wave her hand and toss some crumpled bills my way—usually twenties yanked from her designer wallet without looking.

I stash every dollar under my pillow, right next to my secret Altoids tin full of spare change.

Sleeping with cash under my pillow makes me feel safe. That’s the American dream in miniature—cold, hard cash is the only comfort I get.