Watching their intimacy, I envied them desperately.
Seven years of hardship had left me unable to fit into that kind of family warmth.
In her princess dresses, graceful Emily was a sharp contrast to me—skinny, gloomy, and joyless.
She could cling to them, pouting and wheedling, just to get them to take her to an Italian restaurant for dinner.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t even bring myself to say that my underwear didn’t fit.
In fact, I had never worn real underwear.
At the foster home, I only used strips of cloth to bind myself.
At that age, my chest developed too quickly for my thin body, attracting mocking stares and inappropriate comments.
Frightened, I scavenged an old worn vest from an elderly lady at the shelter and used it as a chest binder.
When she saw my struggles, she felt sorry for me and even cut off my long hair, making me look like a scrawny boy.
Still, I clung to the belief that my family wouldn’t despise me—that they would love me.
I grew my hair out again, tried wearing dresses, imitating Emily, doing everything I could to be a “proper girl.”
But no matter how much I tried, they always favored Emily.