After I started working, I scrimped even harder—never splurged on so much as a bubble tea. The moment my paycheck hit, I'd transfer every cent to her account.
I couldn't fathom why she'd think I'd scheme to get my hands on this demolition payout.
Mom let out a derisive laugh, arms crossed, looking at me sideways.
"Are you saying you're not?"
"All these years, you've been so meek and eager to please. You think I don't see it? You knew I was sick, thought I'd be easy to manipulate. Playing the perfect daughter to squeeze whatever you could out of me."
"You've been calculating since you were a child, always putting on that filial act. Not like your sister—she's simple, genuine, no hidden agenda. Her devotion is real."
Her words hit me like ice water straight to the chest.
So that's how she saw it. My devotion was performance. My sacrifices were manipulation.
While my sister's laziness and entitlement were just... innocence. And her half-hearted "how are you" texts whenever she needed money? Apparently that counted as heartfelt love.
Of course. To someone who doesn't love you, everything you do is wrong.
I didn't bother explaining anymore. Just took a deep breath and kept my voice flat.