Chapter 1Eight years after I cut ties with my mom, we ran into each other at this bakery.
She was there to grab a cake for my sister, Brooke. I worked there.
After a beat of silence, she spoke first—her voice tight, loaded with something I couldn't name.
"So THIS is what you've done with yourself? Without me and your dad?"
Her eyes got all red, but I couldn't read what was behind them.
I didn't say anything. Just boxed up her order and slid it across the counter.
She stared at the cake but didn't take it.
I pushed it into her hands and turned to help the next customer.
She wasn't having it. Walked right up next to me, her voice sharp:
"That's it? You have nothing to say to me? I'm your MOTHER!"
I stopped what I was doing and looked at her.
What was I supposed to say?
SHE was the one who told me to stop calling her that.
And I wasn't that little girl begging for her love anymore.
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The place smelled like frosting. Other customers started staring. Things got super awkward.
Until my dad walked in and broke the tension.
"Is Brooke's cake ready yet?"
The second he saw me, his eyes went wide. This fifty-year-old man teared up right there in front of everyone. He tried to grab my hand:
"Clara, why haven't you called us? Don't you know how much we've missed you?"
I stepped back, keeping my voice flat:
"If there's nothing else, please don't mess with my work. Other customers are waiting."
Something I said must've pissed my mom off. Her face went dark.
Just as she was about to go off on me, her phone rang. I saw the name on the screen—Brooke.
She quickly turned away and picked up:
"Mom, where's my cake? It's taking forever."
"Almost done, sweetie. Just give me a sec."
She hung up and slipped right back into her usual routine:
"You know how your sister is—she's always had a sweet tooth. Still acts like a kid sometimes, not like you who was always so—"
I cut her off:
"Enough."
She froze. Whatever she was about to say died in her throat.
She wasn't used to this. The old me never cut her off. I used to scramble for her attention—even if it meant getting yelled at.
"I actually do have work to do," I said, meeting her shocked look. "So can you both leave instead of messing up my shift?"
My mom opened her mouth to argue, but Dad grabbed her arm. He looked at me with this forced smile:
"You go ahead. We'll catch up with you later."
"Don't bother," I cut him off. "And don't let Brooke find out you came looking for me. What if she has another meltdown?"
Both of them went pale.
Brooke called again, her voice tight with impatience.
Finally, they left—but kept looking back at me, something I couldn't read in their eyes.
After they were gone, my knuckles were white from gripping the counter. The sweet smell of cake suddenly felt like it was choking me.
Around noon, my manager got back from her supply run, arms full of baking stuff.
I moved to help, but she waved me off:
"You've been on your feet all morning. Go eat. Plus, your back—you shouldn't be lifting anything. I've got this."
I stood there, suddenly feeling this dull ache in my lower back. I'd been too busy earlier to notice. Now it throbbed.
An old injury from back then—from when I got beat. I'd been living with the pain so long, I'd almost forgotten it was even there.
After she finished unloading, my manager saw me spacing out in the corner and came over with a smile:
"What's wrong, Clara?"
I blinked and looked up. "Nothing."
My coworker, Ivy, leaned in:
"Nothing? That couple this morning was totally giving you shit. I saw your face change from the back room."
The manager's expression got serious:
"What couple?"
"Not sure. But they looked kind of familiar."
Ivy shrugged.
My manager got curious and pulled up the security footage on her phone. The second she saw my mother's face, she gasped:
"Wait—is that Dr. Colette? The professor from MIT? I've seen her interviews—she's huge in education. And her husband's some famous psychologist. Total power couple!"
"I heard they're totally obsessed with their younger daughter. Like, she's supposed to be this perfect golden child or something."
"Younger daughter?" Ivy perked up. "Wait, so there's an older one too?"
The manager just shrugged—she had no idea. Then she looked at me, eyes narrowing:
"You know these people? 'Cause they sure as hell didn't come here for cake."
I met their eyes, my voice flat:
"I'm their older daughter."
The one they blamed for everything. The one they said tried to kidnap her own sister.
Chapter 2
Both of them just stared at me, jaws hanging open.
Eventually, they got too curious. So I told them my story—like it happened to someone else.
When I was little, I had parents who loved me.
They treated me like I was their whole world.
I said I wanted to see the northern lights in Alaska, and they took time off work and flew me there overnight.
I said I hated being alone, so Dad turned down this big teaching job at MIT just to work closer to home. Mom, no matter how long her business trips were, always caught the last flight back to tuck me in.
Even after Brooke was born, they didn't love me any less.
Brooke was a sickly baby—always feverish and crying at night.
My parents had to take care of her, but they didn't want me to feel left out. After getting her to sleep, they'd sneak into my room and hold me until I fell asleep.
I tried to make things easier on them. Followed Brooke around everywhere—carried her backpack, stood up to kids who messed with her, split my candy with her even when I didn't want to.
As she got older, my parents stayed fair. Both our rooms looked exactly the same. Clothes, shoes, books, supplies—they bought two of everything.
People praised them all the time, like of course they raise their kids so well—they're both academics.
I thought we'd be happy forever.
Until Brooke turned eight.
That day, my parents took her for a checkup. When they came home, both of them looked shaken.
Mom called me over, her eyes watery, and ran her hand through my hair:
"Clara, your sister's not as strong as you. I need you to be easier on her now, okay?"
Dad jumped right in:
"She can't take much. You're the big sister—you gotta watch out for her."
I had no idea what "not as strong" really meant back then. But I knew I had to take care of her. So I nodded hard:
"I will."
I didn't know those two words would be the start of me losing everything.
My room got turned into a sunroom for Brooke—because she needed more sunlight.
My piano got shoved into storage—because the noise messed with her rest.
Even the study guides I wanted for my birthday got pushed aside for these expensive imported supplements for Brooke.
"We'll get you something later", they said.
But that "later" never came.
At this point, the manager and Ivy were both crying.
Ivy grabbed my hand, her voice shaking:
"How could they do that to you? That's not—families don't do that!"
"What about your sister? How did she treat you?"
How did she treat me?
Once my parents made it clear who mattered more, Brooke only got worse.
She knocked over a glass of milk onto my homework, then cried to our parents that I'd pushed her and spilled it.
She snuck spicy food, got sick, and said I gave it to her.
At first, my parents would at least ask for my side. But after a while? They just assumed I was the problem. That I was picking on my weak little sister.
"You're the older one—why can't you just deal with it?"
"Brooke's not well. Can't you be more careful and stop upsetting her?"
I tried to explain, but every time, Brooke's tears drowned me out.
My parents would always tell me to shut up, then scoop her up and comfort her—while I stood there like I didn't exist.
Eventually, I became invisible in my own home.
Just be patient with your sister became the only thing I ever heard.
Until Brooke's birthday, my parents filled the table with her favorite desserts. I gave her this picture book I'd saved up for.
She seemed happy. Said she wanted to play hide and seek.
I was so excited. I thought maybe, finally, we were okay.
But then she disappeared.
I looked for hours. Couldn't find her anywhere.
When my parents found out, they completely lost it.
Mom grabbed me by the shoulders, nails digging in so hard I started crying—but she wouldn't let go. Her voice was ice-cold:
"Where is Brooke?"
"I don't know. She wanted to play hide and seek. I've been looking all day—"
Before I could finish, she slapped me. Hard. Then again. And again.
My ears were ringing. She dragged me to my room and threw me on the floor.
I heard something crack in my back. The pain was insane.
Mom locked the door from the outside, her voice mean as hell:
"You little brat. Did you hide her because you're jealous? If we don't find her by tonight, you're not getting food or water."
Dad just stood there. Watching.
That night, I was lying on the floor, hurting too much to move.
The hunger didn't even matter compared to the pain. My vision kept going blurry.
Right before I passed out, I heard Brooke's voice.
"Mommy, she said she was gonna get rid of me so you'd only love her. I was so scared. I barely got away."
Chapter 3
Through the crack under the door, I saw Mom pull Brooke into her arms:
"Oh, baby, you have no idea how scared I was. I thought I'd never see you again. Don't worry—I'll deal with your sister."
Dad's eyes were red too, looking so relieved.
I tried to call out. To explain. But my throat closed up. The words came out broken.
Outside, I heard them comforting her:
"Our poor baby."
"We won't let her near you again."
Then the sound of the door closing.
They left with Brooke. Left me locked inside.
The room got colder. My back was killing me. My stomach was twisting with hunger. Everything kept flickering.
I was freaking out, trying to reach the door handle, but every time I moved it felt like my spine was splitting open. All I could do was watch the light under the door slowly fade away.
I don't know how long I was out.
I came to with my parents freaking out.
"Clara! Clara, come on—wake up!"
"She's breathing! Go—hospital, now!"
Dad grabbed me and just ran. They didn't stop the whole way.
In the ER, the doctor held up an X-ray, his face serious:
"Fractured lumbar vertebrae. Plus low blood sugar and a high fever. What happened to this kid? If you'd come any later, we might've lost her."
My parents weren't even listening. The second I was stable, they heard Brooke crying in the hallway:
"Mom, Dad—I was in that closet so long. I couldn't breathe. I kept thinking she was really gonna leave me somewhere. I was shaking so bad I couldn't stop."
They rushed over to her, all worried, while I just lay there in the hospital bed.
They ran every test on Brooke and came back with this diagnosis: mild anxiety. But they treated it like she had major depression.
"Are you happy now, Clara?"
Mom stormed into my room and pointed right at me:
"Brooke was fine before this. Now she's got depression because of you. How can you be so awful?"
I was covered in bandages, could barely sit up, and they didn't give a damn.
They turned around and left to take care of Brooke instead.
I opened my mouth to explain, but my throat was too dry. No sound came out. I could only watch as they walked away.
After I got out of the hospital, my parents took Brooke and moved to Portland—"for her safety," they said. Then left me behind in Boston.
Before Mom left, she tossed a few hundred bucks at me:
"Don't come looking for us. And don't even think about going near Brooke again, or you'll regret it."
"We'll keep paying your tuition. That's it. Everything else? Figure it out yourself."
They didn't look back.
The house felt huge and empty. Just me, the memories, and my back constantly hurting.
I had no choice but to deal with it.
Went to school during the day. Washed dishes at a diner at night. Handed out flyers on weekends.
Nobody asked if I'd eaten. If I was warm enough. If my back was okay.
My parents sent tuition money like clockwork. Nothing else. Not a single word.
This went on until I finished high school. I did pretty well on my exams and thought maybe—just maybe—I could build a future on my own.
I looked up schools online and picked one that felt right.
Then my parents called for the first time in years.
"You applied to a school in Portland? Who told you to do that?"
"I—"
Mom cut me off:
"Change it. Now. Brooke's here. She can't handle stress. You'll just make things worse."
Dad took the phone, his voice hard:
"We already talked to your teacher. He's helping you switch schools. We're your parents. We get to decide."
I had no say.
Because I didn't know the new school well, I didn't get in anywhere.
I didn't get into college.
Meanwhile, Brooke got sent overseas to study. Cost a fortune, but they said it was to protect her "mental health."
When I heard that, I completely broke down.
I took the money I'd saved from working and bought a train ticket to Portland. I had to know—why did they hate me so much?
When I finally found them, what I saw made my blood run cold.
