Chapter 2

“You just want to dump this little bitch on me so you can go off and enjoy yourself, don’t you? I’m telling you right now, no way that’ll happen! It’d be best if she died here today. That way, neither of us has to deal with her ever again!”

Their cruel words cut into me like knives, stabbing straight through my heart. They kept arguing, but my mind had gone blank. I couldn’t hear anything anymore.

Using the last bit of strength I had, I staggered toward home. In the end, I collapsed onto the small bed my parents had bought for me together when I was little and slowly closed my eyes.

My tears soaked the pillow. The pain was so overwhelming that all I could do was curl into myself as I repeated the words I remembered in Mom’s voice over and over again in my head, trying to comfort myself.

Go to sleep, Daisy. Once you’re asleep, it won’t hurt anymore.

…

Maybe heaven really heard my prayer, because when I woke up, the pain was gone. However, my body felt strangely weightless, floating in midair. I understood immediately then that I was dead, and my soul, seemingly pulled by some invisible force, drifted until I found myself beside Mom.

It was late at night. After parting on bad terms, she and Dad had gone their separate ways. She had returned to the house she bought after the divorce—the one she prepared when she adopted Becca. It wasn’t especially large, but it was decorated warmly.

I saw Becca sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in a fuzzy bear-print pajama set. Mom, the same woman who was always aloof, was kneeling on the floor, putting on her socks for her tenderly. I stared at the scene in shock, feeling my eyes burn. Thinking back, Mom would fly into a rage even if I so much as touched her hands.

Last year, at Grandma’s birthday party, I had worn a pair of shoes that didn’t fit properly, and when Becca tripped me on purpose, I nearly fell. Instinctively, I grabbed onto Mom’s sleeve to steady myself, but she shoved me away immediately and slapped me hard across the face.

She looked at me with pure disgust, her sharp voice crushing what little dignity I had left.

“Who said you could touch me? Your dad sleeps around with who knows how many women. Who knows if you’re carrying some disease just like him!”

I stood there, helpless, tears pooling in my eyes. Grandma sighed from the side. She gently wiped my tears and tried to comfort me, saying that Mom was just a germaphobe and that that was why she didn’t like being touched. However, I knew that wasn’t true because Mom only rejected me but never Becca. Even when Becca’s hands were dirty and sticky, Mom never showed the slightest bit of disgust. Instead, she would hold her hands gently, patiently cleaning away every bit of dirt. That kind of tenderness was something I didn’t even dare to dream about.

After putting her socks on, Mom climbed onto the bed, pulled Becca into her arms, and picked up a storybook. The book was worn and creased. It had clearly been read many times. So, without me knowing, Mom had been reading her bedtime stories every night.

Just like that, she sat there, quietly telling stories for over an hour. Even when Becca asked silly, childish questions, she answered each one patiently, without the slightest hint of annoyance.

Watching it, I felt both envious and heartbroken. I had always thought Mom simply didn’t like talking. After all, sometimes all it took was for me to say a few extra words, and she would explode in anger, ordering me to shut up. Sometimes, she would even take out a needle and thread, saying she’d sew my mouth shut so I could never speak again. Now, however, I finally understood it wasn’t that she didn’t like talking; she just didn’t want to talk to me.

After Becca fell asleep, Mom put on an apron. Even though it was already late into the night, she began bustling around again. It wasn’t until I saw a delicate little cake slowly take shape under her hands that I realized tomorrow was Becca’s birthday.

I watched as she decorated the room and then brought out the gifts she had prepared. A bitter ache spread through my chest. So this was what birthdays were supposed to be like—eating a cake your mother made herself and receiving gifts she had chosen just for you.