The formal proceedings began. My mother, Fronie, took center stage, her voice trembling. "Elodie, she... she just left us. After her father's accident, when he needed her most, she vanished."

She painted a picture of dire poverty, medical bills, and financial ruin. "She even caused her father's permanent physical impairment," Fronie added, a fresh wave of indignant tears flowing down her cheeks.

The comments section exploded. "SELFISH BRAT!" "LOCK HER UP!"

"I wish to enter a plea of 'not guilty'," I stated, my voice clear and steady. "And I would like to request that the court use the memory retrieval device."

The technicians moved quickly, attaching wires to my temples. The screen behind me flickered, and a vivid image materialized. It was Thanksgiving. The scene shifted to a car speeding down a winding mountain road. My aunt and uncle were in the front, their voices rising in a heated argument. Karsyn and I were in the back seat, small and terrified.

The car swerved violently. A truck loomed. Suddenly, everything was chaos—the shriek of tires, the crunch of metal, glass shattering. Then, only silence.

I looked forward. My aunt and uncle were slumped, lifeless. Karsyn, however, was different. Her eyes, though still tear-filled, held a strange, assessing quality. She looked at her parents, then at me, then back at her parents. A brief, almost imperceptible flicker of something I couldn't understand crossed her face.

The memory fast-forwarded to our arrival at the hospital. Don and Fronie rushed in. Fronie immediately enveloped Karsyn in a hug. Don, after a cursory glance at my bandaged arm, turned his full attention to Karsyn, his voice dripping with sympathy for the orphaned child.

Then, a new scene. Don, a few days later, in hushed conversation with a lawyer. He was beaming, a wide, almost manic grin on his face. "Of course, we'll take her in!" he announced. "She's family, after all!"

But the image shifted again, and the family dynamic twisted. Karsyn was instantly elevated. I was moved to a smaller, colder room in the attic. My new clothes were hand-me-downs.

One night, years later, I overheard them. "Are you sure this is all safe?" Fronie whispered. "All that money... are we really in control?"

"Relax, Fronie," Don replied, a greedy edge to his voice. "It's all set up. Karsyn's trust fund. Millions. We're her guardians. We just have to make sure she's happy until she's eighteen, and then..."

"But what about Elodie?" Fronie asked.

Don scoffed. "Elodie? She's the goose that lays the golden eggs, Fronie. A means to an end. Keep Karsyn happy, keep Karsyn on our side, and we'll be set for life. Elodie's just... collateral damage."

I didn't fully understand the phrase "golden goose" then, but the bitter taste of it clung to me. From that day on, I was no longer their daughter. I was a problem.

The memory of my parents' whispered conversation sent a fresh wave of nausea through me. My academic achievements were now completely ignored.

The screen flickered. a new scene unfolded, years later. I was a teenager, my hands rough, my body aching. The clatter and roar of a factory floor filled the air. My parents had pulled me out of my advanced placement classes, claiming they couldn't afford the "extra burden" of my education.

"Karsyn needs her tuition paid," Fronie had declared. "You need to contribute, Elodie. It's your duty."

I started saving every spare penny, a secret cache hidden beneath a loose floorboard. Then, I got sick. A bout of pneumonia forced me to miss work. The money I usually sent home was late.

The memory shifted, violently. My parents burst into the factory. Don grabbed my arm. "Where's the money, you ungrateful wretch?!"

My hidden stash slipped from my pocket. Don's eyes widened with a terrifying greed. "You've been hoarding money from us, you little thief?!"

He began to hit me, his open palm cracking against my cheek again and again. Fronie stomped on a pile of my precious books, tearing the pages. "Filling your head with nonsense instead of focusing on your family!"

"No! Please!" I begged.

Don grabbed a handful of paper, my precious sketches, and tore them into confetti. "This is what you get for being selfish!"