I lost balance and crashed into a wine rack. Glass shattered. Blood ran down my arm.
Arthur rushed forward—not to help me, but to shield Loren from flying glass, cradling her like she was made of porcelain.
The champagne spilled, and with it, the illusion of a happy family shattered completely.
After that day, they no longer hid their relationship. They paraded their love openly.
Today was my birthday. Again, they claimed to be busy. But I saw the truth on social media—Arthur and Loren beaming over candles and roses. In the photo, both of them wore the clothes I had ironed for them that very morning.
I called again and again. He didn’t pick up. Finally, he sent a single message:
“She’s your sister. She’s sick and needs care. How can you be so heartless?”
“Sister.” Just two syllables, yet they bound me like chains.
Loren had a rare blood disease, in and out of hospitals since childhood. All my parents' love went to her. I was born not as a daughter, but as her blood bag.
They threw grand parties for her birthday, forgot mine completely.
She loved flowers, so they filled the house with blooms—even though I was allergic.