We have a family group chat meant for the core members only. It's named "the Coppola family".

The ones in the group are my father, my mother, my oldest brother, Fabio Coppola; my second brother, Luca Coppola, and my little sister, Francesca Coppola.

Oh, that's not all. Fabio's bloodhound, Fido; Luca's ragdoll, Neve; and Francesca's fancy rat, Pico, are members of the group chat too.

I'm the only one who's not included in that group.

There's once when I ask Francesca, "Can you add me into the group?"

She's in the middle of feeding Pico at that time. Without bothering to glance at me, she replies, "That group is meant for insiders only. Wouldn't you feel awkward if you were to join the group, Valentina?"

I just look at Pico, who keeps screeching in Francesca's arms. It has a special nickname and the right to speak up in the family group.

To think that I, the Coppolas' biological daughter, am nothing compared to a fancy rat.

In the Coppola family, every kid but me was a genius.

Fabio Coppola was intellectually gifted, able to ace any exam with ease. In elementary school, he developed a game that went viral online and now controlled the family's vast financial empire.

Luca Coppola was exceptionally talented in sports. No matter the event, he could take home gold. In the future, he would take over the family's Soldato training.

As for Francesca Coppola, she could sing and dance beautifully and was a hugely popular influencer adored by fans. Everyone knew our family spoiled her.

Even Pico, the family's pet rat, had a dedicated bodyguard watching over it around the clock.

I was the only invisible person in the family, the one with no presence whatsoever.

Last weekend, my family held a party at our own club.

Francesca was in a booth chatting with Greta Grasso, a daughter from a family we do business with.

Greta was brimming with curiosity and admiration for everything about my family and kept pressing Francesca for details about our household.

Francesca enthusiastically took out her phone and scrolled through her photo album, introducing Papa, Mamma, Fabio, Luca, and herself one by one. Then, she showed off Fido, Neve, and Pico.

Eight photos, each clearly introduced, with me being the only one missing.

Greta was a bit puzzled. "Wait, how come I've heard you actually have another sister?"

Francesca lifted her glass and slowly took a sip. Then, she replied dismissively, "Oh, she doesn't count as family."

I was standing less than five feet away in the shadows, holding the drink I was about to deliver to Francesca.

I never imagined that the woman I'd called my sister for 20 years could so casually erase my existence in front of an outsider.

That night, Francesca's remark quickly spread among the guests.

People's glances toward me started to turn strange.

Finally, someone cautiously approached Papa for confirmation.

With a cigar between his fingers, Papa replied without even looking up, "It's just a joke between the girls. There's no need to read too much into it."

A joke, huh?

He neither vindicated me nor reprimanded Francesca for her loose tongue. With one casual sentence, he thoroughly erased my entire identity and dignity.

My family had always been strict with their rules, and the weekly family long-table dinner was the most direct expression of that.

Papa always sat at the head of the table, the seat that symbolized absolute dominion. On either side, arranged in order were Mamma, Fabio, Luca, and the utterly spoiled Francesca.

Fido sat on the handwoven rug at Fabio's feet, Neve rested on a velvet-cushioned chair, and the spot next to Francesca was Pico's exclusive high chair.

Even the three pets had their own seats of honor at the table, as Mamma said this helped them integrate into the family.

Meanwhile, I—the eldest daughter—had to huddle on a folding chair shoved at the very end. The seat was so far from the dishes that I usually had to half-stand like a fool, stretching my arm out as far as it'd go.

The humiliation from the party had lodged in my heart like a thorn.

Today, for the first time ever, I felt a flicker of rebellious defiance.

Half an hour before dinner, I dragged the folding chair right next to Francesca and Pico's designated spots. I wanted to prove that I couldn't possibly be worth less than a rat.

As dusk fell, my family entered the dining room one by one.

Papa glanced coldly at me, then walked straight to the head of the table without saying anything.

Mamma furrowed her brow deeply, her gaze like a blade.

"Valentina Coppola, what are you doing sitting here? Go back to your place."

Clutching the hem of my clothes, I said quietly, "Mamma, that spot is too far from the food. I want to change seats—"

"That's Pico's place," she cut me off coldly. "It's used to sitting here."

What? A rat was used to the spot, so I had to give way?

I gripped the armrest. "Can't we just put Pico a little further away?"

The words had barely left my mouth when Francesca screeched, "Are you out of your mind? Pico will be terrified if it can't see me!"

Luca, slicing the steak on his plate, said without even looking up, "You're being really annoying, making such a fuss over a seat."

Fabio let out a cold snort. "If you still want to eat at this table, get back to your original spot right now."

Finally, Papa set down his wine glass and cast an icy look at me.

"Do as your Mamma says."

Five people with five pronouncements. No one thought it absurd for a rat to be at the table, nor did they see anything wrong with me being exiled to that distant corner.

I swallowed the bitterness in my throat and wordlessly dragged my chair back to the cold, shadowy edge.

At the table, the discussion ranged from the company Fabio had just acquired, Luca's plan to win gold at next month's competition abroad, and Francesca's upcoming fan meet-and-greet, to some secrets of the underworld.

No one spared me a glance.

In front of me was a plate of cold, hard spaghetti. The nearest dish was well beyond my reach.

I turned my head and looked pleadingly at the household staff standing by in attendance, signaling her with my eyes to help me.

But she simply pretended not to have seen anything, turning instead to pick up a plate of fruit, vegetables, and rodent feed. She then approached respectfully to feed Pico.

Even the household staff knew exactly who the lowest rung in the family was—someone who could be slighted at will.

I lowered my head and gave up reaching for the food. I simply ate my spaghetti in silence, tasting the salt of my tears in every bite.

Dinner ended amidst a facade of a "harmonious and cheerful" atmosphere.

As Mamma rose, she swept her gaze over me and casually tossed out a command.

"Don't forget to go to the front hall and sort out the packages that arrived. Bring up Pico's cage accessories, Fido's custom raw meat and bones, and Neve's canned cat food."

I nodded numbly.

Late at night, I carried the heavy boxes into the lounge area on the second floor.

On the table lay the new custom family portrait Mamma had commissioned.

I stopped and went over to take a look.

There were Papa, Mamma, Fabio, Luca, Francesca, Fido, Neve, and Pico.

Five people and three pets, yet not a single trace of me.

I calmly withdrew my gaze, then stuffed the pet supplies into their respective storage boxes.

Finally, I walked down the narrow hallway back to my room. This place saw no sunlight year-round and didn't even have a decent bathroom.

After locking the door, I lay down on the creaking folding bed and closed my eyes.

I didn't say a word, because I knew better than anyone that even if I spoke up, no one in this family would care.

I knew Francesca had never considered me as family. When she first started at an elite school, the headmaster, Carlo Basso, personally came to the house to register her.

When filling in the family members section, Francesca counted on her manicured fingers and smiled sweetly.

"There's Papa, Mamma, Fabio, Luca, and me. That makes exactly five of us."

Papa and Mamma gazed at her adoringly, and Mr. Basso chimed in with a flurry of flattery.

Not one of them corrected her.

I stood off to the side like a maid, holding her heavy designer schoolbag for her.

Another time, I used money I'd saved up for ages to buy a limited-edition vinyl record. When the package arrived, Francesca was right in the middle of filming a video with gifts from her fans scattered all over the floor.

She stared at the box with my name on it for three seconds, then turned around and tossed it straight out the window.

I rushed downstairs, only to find the crushed remains of the record on the road.

While grooming Pico, Francesca poked her head out the window to look at me.

"Valentina, what are you doing running into the middle of the road? It's dangerous! Oh? So that dirty box was your stuff? I thought it was garbage. Sorry about that."

As I looked at her innocent smiling face, it suddenly dawned on me that to her, I was nothing more than garbage to be thrown out at any moment—just like the record.

In comparison, Fabio seemed to treat me a little better.

But that was only because I was still a reasonably obedient and unpaid maid.

In this enormous mansion, dozens of professionally trained household staff were clearly employed. Yet, whether it was brewing coffee, cleaning up pet excrement, or signing for those heavy packages, he naturally dumped all these tedious chores on me.

Once, at 3:00 am, he called me and said, "Bring the documents from home to the office, and be quick about it."

Afraid of holding things up, I forced myself to stay awake and helped him bring it over.

Without even looking up, he just said, "Leave them there."

There wasn't even a token word of thanks from him.

Even so, deep in my heart, I still longed for the shelter of my family.

In middle school, a few boys in class talked all day about the business genius from the Coppola family and the game he made in elementary school.

They went on about how fun that game was, how much money it made, and how great it would be to know him.

I couldn't help but murmur, "That's my older brother."

They instantly burst into loud laughter.

"Look at you, all shabby with no game console, and you've got the nerve to say Fabio is your older brother?"

I ran home with red eyes, wanting to borrow Fabio's crest pin, which represented his status, as proof.

But he looked up from his papers and said with eyes full of scorn, "You want me to lend it to you so you can make a fool of us?"

Mamma was nearby, frowning with disgust. "Where on earth did you learn such shabby behavior?"

Papa also reprimanded me coldly, "I sent you to school to study, not to cause trouble under this family's name."

And so, saddled with the label of "liar", I was mocked all the way until graduation.

Later, while cleaning Fabio's room, I saw that the very crest pin I'd begged for and been denied was casually tossed into the dog bed as a toy.

As for Luca, the sports star who won gold medals in every competition so effortlessly, his disdain for me was even more blatant.

He won a national championship at 12 years old, and by 15, he was sweeping international competitions.

When I used the first bit of money I'd saved from my part-time job to buy him a gift to celebrate his latest gold medal, he looked me up and down with confusion.

"Are you really Papa's kid? How come you've got none of the elite genes?"

Later, I found the paternity test report between Papa and me on his desk, which clearly showed a confirmed biological relationship.

In the margins, Luca had scribbled in red pen, "Paternity confirmed. Yet, entirely lacking the family's elite genetic markers. A curious case, indeed."

I took that report and went to confront him.

But he didn't so much as bat an eye as he said with perfect composure, "I was just a little curious. Don't you think you don't look like one of us at all?"

Last year, Luca won first place by a landslide in the world's most prestigious competition, earning immense prestige for the family.

Overjoyed, Papa threw him a grand victory party at the club.

Under the spotlight, Luca took the microphone and said, "I'd like to invite my family on stage for a photo to share this honor."

Papa, Mamma, Fabio, and Francesca went up in turn. Luca even turned around and scooped Neve up onto the stage.

Meanwhile, the emcee hesitated, looking toward me, who was standing on the sidelines.

"What about that young lady over there?"

But Luca just glanced at me, his tone dripping with contempt. "Oh, just ignore her. She's our maid."

The club erupted in thunderous applause as camera flashes lit up the room.

On stage, the five of them beamed with dazzling smiles. The occasional glances they cast my way passed through me as if I were nothing but air.

I stood alone in the shadows below the stage, digging my nails into my palms.

It was the first time I realized that at the very depths of sadness, tears were impossible to hold in.