Chapter 3

Wendy pulled her back just enough, but not before the hot pasta scalded my mouth and throat.

I started coughing uncontrollably, the pain burning deep.

Looking at Mom's crazed, furious face, memories from before started flooding back.

When I first came back home, I was always walking on eggshells, terrified of making mistakes. I didn't know any proper table manners, so at fancy dinners with Mom, I barely touched my food. I went to bed hungry, my stomach aching, night after night.

One night, the pain was so sharp that I snuck downstairs hoping to find some bread, only to get caught by Mom as she was up late.

Back then, we weren't close, but she surprised me. She went to the kitchen and cooked for me herself, showing a rare bit of warmth.

It was just a simple plate of pasta, just like this one.

Now, Mom was still losing it, screaming at me like crazy.

My throat swelled from the burn. Breathing grew tight. My thoughts slowed, froze over, like a river in deep winter.

Maybe Mom was right. Maybe I should never have come back.

By the time I finally came to, it was already the next day.

My throat was burned so badly that I couldn't say a word. All I could do was scribble notes to the servants whenever I needed something.

From them, I learned Mom had gotten sent to the hospital for her mental breakdown, and Wendy, who'd worked here nearly 20 years, got fired over that plate of pasta.

No one dared to show me any kindness anymore. They just brought me food and medicine every day without a word as they were ordered.

*****

A week passed before I saw Mom again.

Weeks after what everyone thought was Esther's death, a formal memorial was arranged. Mom was busy with every detail.

I still couldn't speak. Maybe from guilt, on the morning of the memorial, she said to me, "You should be there. We're gathering to honor your sister."

I was honestly stunned, almost flattered. Even though my mouth still ached from the burn, I hurried to help—greeting guests, arranging chairs.

Then I saw one of the thugs from the alley, standing among the mourners.

In a panic, I accidentally broke a cup that Esther had used.

Mom's expression darkened instantly. She strode over and shoved me aside.

I instinctively tried to explain, but no sound came out.

Her hands trembling, Mom reached for the shards, but they sliced her finger. The blood was the final straw.

She went berserk, punching and kicking me, screaming like a madwoman, "Why? Why won't you just leave Esther alone? She's already gone. Why do you have to touch her things? Why don't you just die?"

*****

I had no idea how that whole scene wrapped up.

When I came to, I was locked in the basement of the old house. Mom, in her rage, had put me there.

Right before the door slammed shut, I heard one of the servants say, "Mrs. Peyton doesn't want to see you. You will stay here. You will atone for what you did to Ms. Esther Peyton. Each week, a medium will come. Only when Ms. Esther Peyton forgives you will you be released. Until then, I will bring your meals."

The basement was actually where I'd lived when I first returned. My old diary from Starlight Children's Home was still there—pages and pages of a girl who missed parents she had never met.

After everything, I was back at the beginning.

Day after day, I was trapped in that dark, miserable basement.

At first, a servant brought me food three times a day. But after about two weeks, the servant vanished, and someone else came instead.

Slowly, the meals dwindled. Three, then one. Then once every three days.

In the end, it stopped. The small hatch in the basement door stayed shut. I had been erased.

My throat, burned by Mom, could only produce a raw whisper. No one could hear me call for help.

I started keeping a diary again—a habit from Starlight Children's Home.

When I was five, the couple I thought were my parents died in a car crash, and I was sent to Starlight Children's Home. That's when I learned they weren't my real parents after all.

There were tons of kids, and since I was the youngest, I got bullied all the time. Before one of the older girls got adopted, she gave me a notebook and said, "Someday, you'll find your real parents. If you miss them, just write it all down in here. Maybe someday, you'll get to show it to them."

Mom never even bothered to open my diary—not once, even before she locked me up in the basement.

I wrote anyway—just for myself.

I poured out all the unfairness and pain I'd suffered over the past three years, every bit of hurt I'd swallowed.

By the last entry, my hand could hardly hold the pen. I knew this was the end.

Strangely enough, I wasn't scared of dying at all. If anything, I felt relieved.

Finally, I could die the way Mom wanted. She'd never have to see my face again. She could forget the grief I brought her.

With a trembling hand, I wrote the last words: [I don't want to be Mom's real daughter if I had another life.]