My father loved my mother desperately. And because of me, she died. Later, my father adopted another daughter. A girl who looked so much like my mother. On our sixteenth birthday— He paraded his adopted daughter around like a princess, while I was mistaken for the housekeeper’s child. Just then, my phone rang. "Happy birthday, my love! "It's been so long. Mommy misses you so, so much!" My world stopped. My mother was back. 1 I was about to wash the car for Isla’s friend, on her command, when my father, Matthew Backman, came home. His assistant followed behind him, carrying an exquisite crystal castle—a gift for Isla. A chorus of gasps and envious whispers erupted from Isla’s classmates. Then, I heard my father's voice, thick with a doting affection I hadn’t heard in a decade. "A castle for my princess," he said. "Happy birthday, my one and only little princess." His one and only princess. I chewed on those words until they turned sour in my mouth. Today wasn't just Isla's birthday. It was mine, too. But just like every year before, I got nothing. Because in my father’s eyes, I was a sinner. I didn't deserve a birthday. I was the one who killed my mother. 2 Ten years ago today, my mother got into a car accident on her way to buy me the strawberry cake I’d been craving. She left us forever. And from that day on, Matthew hated me. At her funeral, he announced to everyone, "As of today, Lynn is no longer my daughter." I crouched on the floor, blinking my red-rimmed eyes at him, lost and confused. I was too young then to understand the finality in his voice. Only later, as I grew up, did I realize how absolute his decree had been. His company went public. His net worth skyrocketed. And with his new fortune, he adopted Isla. From then on— His affection was for Isla alone. Isla lived in the master suite of our mansion; I was given the maid’s quarters. A chauffeur drove Isla to and from her elite private school. I took the city bus. Her closet overflowed with new clothes. I wore her cast-offs. Isla was the princess. I was the live-in servant. And he was right. I was a servant with no parents to call my own. 3 But I wanted to be a princess, too. I remember, a lifetime ago, he promised me I would be. Back then, my mother was still alive. His company was just a fledgling startup, and the three of us were crammed into a small two-bedroom apartment. To support him, my mother would secretly transfer the gift money my grandfather gave me into his bank account. "Lynn and I don't need much," she would tell him, her voice a soft reassurance. "Don't you worry." I loved to parrot her words. "Daddy, don't worry," I'd chirp. "Lynn's piggy bank… it's all for you…" He’d break then, leaning down to press his face between ours. A moment later, hot drops would fall onto my chubby cheeks, tickling me. Looking back, I know they were his tears. Before I turned ten, he used to tell me all the time: "When Daddy makes it, when he makes a lot of money, I'm going to make my little girl a princess, okay?" See? He promised. But he broke it. A sharp, condescending voice pulled me from my thoughts. "Excuse me, maid girl, aren't you going to wash my car? Or do you think you can ignore me just because I’m only Isla’s classmate?" Isla attended a prestigious international school. Her friends were all heirs and heiresses, and they acted like it. But I wasn't a maid. I glared at her, about to retort. And then— My father’s voice, cool and indifferent, cut through the air. "Why haven't you gone?" Why haven't you gone? The words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. How could I forget? In his eyes, that's exactly what I was. "Right away." 4 Matthew had made it clear: if I ever displeased him, he would cut off my tuition and living expenses. But I had promised my mother I would get into the best university. I couldn't break a promise to her. So, as long as he continued to pay, I would endure anything. I bit my lip and turned to leave. A moment later, a deceptively sweet voice drifted from behind me. "Daddy, maybe we should let Lynn blow out the candles with us? It's her birthday, too. She was really looking forward to it. She even secretly tried on my new evening gown yesterday…" My brow furrowed. I spun around, ready to deny it. But a wave of disdainful murmurs had already started. "Oh my god, a servant who dares to steal her master's clothes." "Isla, did you have that dress disinfected?" "Unbelievable." "So she's a little thief." 5 Hearing them, I almost lunged forward. I wanted to smash Isla's face into the cake, to make her choke on her own lies. I admit it. Last night, when she was showing off her new dress, I was envious. But that was all. Just envy. I never touched it… I am not a thief. My eyes burned with rage, but I didn't dare move. Because Matthew, as if sensing my intent, had already stepped in front of Isla. He looked at me, his face a dark cloud of contempt, hatred, and chilling indifference. "How could she have a daughter like you?" he hissed. "Apologize. Or you can drop out of school tomorrow." The threat again. Always the threat. A bitter laugh escaped me. "How could she have a husband like you?" The words hung in the air. Matthew's face went black. I had never seen him look so terrifying. 6 CRACK! The sound of the slap echoed through the grand living room. After years of ignoring my existence, this was the first time he had ever laid a hand on me. Within moments, my right cheek was swollen and hot. Rage and pain warred within me. But what could I do? I was sixteen years old. I had a father in name only. A father who ignored me. Hated me. Threatened me. Hit me. It was true. He didn't love me. Not one bit. And just then, Isla, feigning confusion as if her "good intentions" had gone wrong, rushed over to mediate. "Daddy, it's normal for girls to like pretty dresses! I didn't mean it like that!" Then what did she mean? Whatever. It didn't matter. The blow had already landed. Nothing else could hurt me now. So, Slap. Slap. Slap. I struck Isla three times, hard across the face. "That," I said, my voice shaking, "is the price for your lies." 7 After I hit her, Isla wilted like a trampled white lily. "Lynn!" Matthew’s face contorted with pain as he looked at Isla’s tear-streaked, disheveled face. He personally helped her to her feet, his voice a gentle caress. "Does it hurt? Daddy will call a doctor right away." Isla covered her cheek, tears streaming down her face. "I'm okay, Daddy. Please, don't blame Lynn. I'm begging you—don't hit her again." Her classmates, snapping out of their shock, began to chastise her for being "too kind." They all urged Matthew to kick me out. Kick me out. The irony was as bitter as it was tragic. I lifted my head, and for the first time, I met Matthew’s eyes directly. I saw the absolute, glacial coldness in their depths. His voice was devoid of all emotion. "Lynn. I'm sending you to an orphanage. From this day forward, you are never to set foot in this house again." An orphanage. I was satisfied. I was already an orphan, after all. And I could still go to school from there. It was a thousand times better than staying by his side. …A moment later, Matthew's assistant was at my side, gesturing for me to leave. I turned and walked away, my stride confident. I wouldn't miss this place for a second. But I'd only taken a few steps when my pocket began to vibrate. My phone. I wanted to ignore it. But the buzzing persisted, a rhythmic knocking against my heart. Finally, I pulled it out. I glanced at the caller ID. And my world froze. I couldn't believe it. I blinked hard, again and again. Mom. "It's Mom!" I whispered, my feet rooted to the spot. The assistant urged me on. "Hurry up, Mr. Backman doesn't want to see you anymore…" I ignored him, my hand trembling as I answered the call. I knew it was impossible. My mother was dead. It had been ten years. This number had been silent for a decade. Was this some kind of cruel prank? Even so… I answered. But I couldn't speak. My mouth hung open, my mind blank. Then, a voice came from the other end. A voice I knew better than my own.
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