In the sixteen years I lived with the Jones family, I always looked up to Dylan.
With Dylan, the genius, ahead of me, I was expected to be just as exceptional when I was born five years after him.
The elders all hoped I would be a prodigy like Dylan.
But I was timid and shy. At my tenth birthday party, I stuttered just trying to speak.
They said we came from the same family but were different. I was not that clever.
Whenever that happened, Dylan would just look at me quietly. His eyes were devoid of emotion.
As I grew older, my parents started showing me disappointed looks more and more often.
On my sixteenth birthday, someone said Lydia looked very much like my mother.
It was weird. Lydia was only half a day younger than me. I was born in the morning, and she was in the afternoon.
This timing became a point of suspicion.
Mother's hand slowly traced Lydia's face, outlining her features.
Her movements were cautious as if handling a rare treasure.
I stood on the outer edge of the crowd watching them.
The princess dress I wore suddenly felt like vines wrapping around me, tightening and suffocating me.
The guests whispered among themselves, turning to look me up and down.