They only brought me to the city for middle school because the village didn't have one. That was when my life as their live-in servant began.
While Lily lounged on the sofa watching TV and crunching potato chips, I scrubbed floors until my knees bruised. I washed dishes, hauled trash, hung laundry.
On our birthdays, Lily unwrapped brand-new princess dresses and porcelain dolls. I received her cast-offs—stained clothes and broken toys she'd grown bored of.
I was young then. I didn't understand the cruelty of it.
"Am I not good enough?" I once asked Grandma, tears stinging my eyes.
Grandma smoothed my hair, her expression pained. "It's not that you aren't good, child. It's that you're too sensible. You don't make enough noise."
Her words only confused me. At school, teachers praised the obedient students. Why did my obedience at home make me invisible?
Desperate for their approval, I threw myself into my studies. I thought if I was perfect, they would finally see me.
I was wrong.
The memory of my first year in middle school remained etched in my mind like a scar. I came home clutching my final exam results—a perfect score—and the "Top Student" certificate.