For as long as I could remember, my mother called me by my sister's name.
Whenever Penelope broke a rule, Mother would storm over claiming she needed to "teach Penelope a lesson"—then beat me until I couldn't stand.
Whenever I brought home good grades, she'd announce she was "rewarding Corinne Fox"—then buy Penelope new clothes and toys.
When I was six, Penelope shattered the only memento our father left behind.
My mother came at me with red-rimmed eyes, feather duster raised, striking over and over until my vision blurred.
I sobbed through the blows, crying that it wasn't me, it wasn't me.
But she said we looked too alike. She couldn't tell us apart.
We looked nothing alike.
Penelope took after our mother—almond-shaped eyes, naturally curly hair that tumbled past her shoulders.
I took after our father—round eyes, straight black hair.
But my mother insisted she couldn't see the difference.
Senior year, I ranked first in the school.
Penelope ranked second from the bottom.
I came home that day glowing, certain—finally—that my mother would praise me.
Instead, she tied me to the ceiling beam and beat me through the night.