Back then, we all lived together in my grandparents’ old house. Julia, taller and more graceful than me, always stood out.
I was left to wear her discarded shoes.
She outgrew them too quickly, and my mother never once thought of buying me a pair of my own.
So, every morning before school, I stuffed crumpled paper inside my socks just to keep my heels from slipping out.
I didn’t want anyone to laugh at me.
But my mother would sneer, saying I walked too timidly, that I lacked the poise and elegance of Julia.
What she always forgot—or chose to ignore—was that the money for Julia’s beautiful, well-fitting clothes and shoes came from my aunt’s endless requests.
My mother never had money for me. But she always had money for them.
My aunt didn’t work. When she ran out of funds, she would turn to my mother, sending Julia to act pitifully and beg for pocket money.
As a child, I had no concept of money. My mother constantly spoke about how hard life was for my aunt, and how we had to help because we were family.
And so, I believed her.
I thought it was normal.
But then, my mother lied.
She told me we were drowning in mortgage debt. She made me take out my savings—everything I had set aside for my future.