And my mother, wiping tears of amusement, practically collapsed against the sofa’s armrest. "Who says she doesn’t? Every single day, she cradles that child like she’s made of glass. I’m her grandmother, but I can’t even scold her."
"Mom," I said, my voice tight with restraint. "She’s just a child. It wouldn’t take much effort for you to—"
Before I could finish, Nate shifted his posture, scrolling on his phone without looking up. "Enough. Go cook already. I’m starving."
The resentment and exhaustion boiled inside me, but there was nowhere to release it.
With no choice, I secured my daughter to my back with a sling and made my way to the kitchen. My entire body ached—my waist sore, my legs weak from climbing the mountain all day—but no one seemed to care. The weight of sadness pressed down on me.
This house—this so-called home—felt nothing like one. It was nothing but an icy, lifeless shell.
I stirred the pot, my tears falling silently into the steam.
Do I really deserve to live like this?
From the living room, Julia’s laughter rang out, pulling me back to memories I had long buried.
I remembered how, as a child, my mother had favored Julia in everything.