Frank stormed into my room, clutching an iron rod. "Jessica, did you steal Stephanie's gold bracelet?"

I struggled to sit up. The sight of my hollow cheeks startled him. He stuttered, "Y-You..."

"I didn't steal anything," I said, leaning against the wall. "Look at me. How could I even steal?"

It looked like I had convinced Frank. He turned and left.

Outside, Stephanie's cries grew louder.

She cried out, "So, you don't trust me, Frank? I'm only thirty-five, having a baby for a fifty-year-old. And now you doubt me?

That bitch is dead, and now her daughter's moved in. Do you think I'm some kind of doormat?"

Frank was quick to soothe her. "Stephanie, don't cry. It could harm the baby. I'll buy you two more bracelets, okay?"

Stephanie abruptly stopped crying. "That will cost fifty thousand dollars. Do you even have that kind of money?"

Their voices became muffled, and I couldn't catch what they said next. The following day, my suitcase was gone. Inside were the portraits of my mom and me, everything I had.

I got out of bed and went out to ask, "Dad, where's my suitcase?"

Frank was busy massaging Stephanie's belly with oil.

Without looking up, he muttered, "What suitcase? I don't know what you're talking about.

You're young. Don't just sit around here. Go get a job, and earn some money for your unborn brother's formula."

Stephanie glanced up at me and sneered, "She looks so ugly and dirty. Darling, the child I'm carrying will definitely be better than that bitch's."

Frank kept massaging Stephanie, looking pleased.

They were all smiles and sweet talk, completely ignoring me.

I yelled, "Shut the fuck up, both of you!"

"Frank, where the hell is my suitcase? What did you do with it?" I demanded, staring him down. He seemed startled.

He shot back, "Look at your eyes popping out. What's with the glare?"

"That's my stuff. How dare you take it, you monster!" I yelled.

Frank seemed surprised by my curse. He stood up abruptly, his hand slick with stretch mark oil, and slapped me across the face.

I staggered back, crashing into something that sent sharp pain shooting through my lower back.

"I sold that damn suitcase. It was an eyesore," Frank snapped.

"You had no right to touch my stuff. I'm going to call the cops," I said, struggling to reach my phone.

Frank rushed at me and shoved me to the ground.

"Jessica, listen, I'm still your father. You need to return whatever you stole," he said sternly.

"I didn't steal anything," I insisted.

Stephanie's voice pierced the air. "Oh please, did my gold bracelet just grow legs and walk away? You definitely stole it, you little thief. Your hands are as dirty as your mother's.

She would steal my makeup, trying to look as pretty as me. It's pathetic. She got old, and no makeup could fix that."

Frank wiped his hands as if he'd touched something dirty after pushing me.

Disgust etched on his face, he spat, "No wonder your mom always said you had sticky fingers. Even she couldn't trust you.

Don't ever tell people you're my daughter. It's humiliating."

I gasped for breath. "Liar. My mom never said those things."

Frank grabbed my face roughly. "Jessica, you stole from your own parents in middle school, from your teachers in high school. You've always been a thief. Who else would it be?

Don't tell me I'm falsely accusing you. Your mom told me all this. I wouldn't have known otherwise."

"Mom?" I murmured.

"She wouldn't have told you that!" My voice cracked.

I knew Mom loved Frank more than she loved me, but those secrets were mine alone, shared only with her.

Stephanie seemed amused by the drama.

She scoffed, "Jessica, your mom was pathetic. Cooking for me right up until she died.

By the way, she begged for the job. You don't pass up a free maid. But her death? Really weird. Anyway, she died before she even finished my laundry. That was inconvenient."

I kept shaking my head, insisting, "No, Mom wasn't like that."

Frank, seeing me distressed, helped Stephanie to her feet. "Let's head back to our room. Watch out for the lunatic. She might hurt you."

I stood frozen, a buzz of confusion in my head.

I remembered lying next to Mom, telling her about being accused of theft at school.

I hadn't stolen anything, yet the teacher's wallet was found in my desk.

Mom had said she believed me.

Raging, I thought, "She believed me!

Frank's just trying to get under my skin. His words are poison.

No matter how much Mom loved him, she wouldn't hurt me, right?

She made sure my sheets were clean and kept my things.

So, she did love me... Didn't she?"

After escorting Stephanie back to their bedroom, Frank returned.

He tossed a stack of letters on the floor. "Read these. They were your mom's. Remember, you owe your life to me.

Stay put and find a job soon. Even if it means selling yourself, do it. Your brother's coming soon, and we need the money."

I zeroed in on the fact that Frank mentioned these were Mom's things.

I was too weak to stand, so I began to crawl.

Carefully, I gathered each yellowed paper and crawled back to my room to read them.

I climbed into bed, completely drained, unable to move any further.

After resting for a few minutes, I began flipping through the letters.

They were just slips of paper, but they felt a ton of bricks in my shaky hands.

The pages had yellowed, but the words shook me to the core, sending a buzz through my brain.

The letters read: [I'm pregnant, and Frank is thrilled. I hope it's a boy because that's what Frank wants.]

[I had a daughter. Frank consoled me, claiming he didn't mind. But I thought about killing her because she was so beautiful.]

[Jessica denies stealing. She really is a bad child. I can't kill her though.]

[Something's wrong with my womb now. And I can't give Frank a son. I keep thinking about killing Jessica. It's all her fault for how she used to kick in my womb. She deserves to die.]

[I think I'm sick. Stephanie says she can give Frank a son, so now I cook nutritious meals for her every day. It's all Jessica's fault. If it weren't for her, I could have given Frank a son.]

Every piece of paper screamed my mother's wish for my death.

"Do I really deserve to die?" I questioned myself.

I had believed my mom just loved Frank more and that she still had some love left for me.

But it turned out, in her eyes, I was just a rival for her husband's affection.

My heart twisted painfully. Yet, part of me was relieved I was actually dying.

"Would you be sad when I'm gone, Mom?" I wondered.

I suspected the answer was no. She'd probably feel relieved, happy that her troublesome daughter, a threat to her relationship with Frank, was out of the picture.

"But Mom, I always thought you loved me, even a little," I reflected.

At dinner time, I left my room.

Stephanie and Frank stared as I approached the table, which had no place set for me.

I grabbed a fork from the kitchen and started scarfing down food.

Stephanie slammed her fork down, glaring at me as if I were something dirty.

"Your mother never ate with us. Get the hell out of my face, okay? You're killing my appetite," she snapped.

Stephanie gagged and covered her mouth, prompting Frank to panic. "Jessica, go back to your room. Stephanie can't stand eating with someone dirty."

"Dirty?" I wondered.

Indeed, I was considered to be dirty.

In fifth grade, I got my first period and blood soaked the bed.

I thought I was dying and ran to my mom, crying.

She was knitting on the windowsill, the same spot where her urn now sat.

She instantly knew what had happened when I told her.

After a pause, she took me to the bathroom and repeatedly washed me down with cold water.

"Mom, my stomach hurts," I sobbed.

She responded, "Jessica, dear, it'll stop once the bleeding stops."

Naively, I believed her, even though the pain persisted.

But her letters said something different: [Today Jessica got her period. Can you believe this little bitch is already becoming a woman?]

[Jessica looks even prettier since her period started. Even Logan, the boss of the auto repair shop, noticed her.]

That summer when I was eighteen, I was defiled.

It was Mother's Day, and I'd picked a bouquet of white flowers for Mom. White was her favorite color.

Clutching the flowers, I walked the path home.

I was only thirty-seven steps from home when the nightmare came. I wanted to escape, but couldn't.

"Mom, I thought you'd come to meet me," I mused.

But one of Mom's letters read: [Jessica is unclean now. The bitch even brought me white flowers, knowing Frank likes white. Damn it.]

That day, I crawled home from Logan's shop, my skirt filthy.

I told Mom how dark and scary it was there.

She patted my head and said maybe this was just my fate.

I really wanted to ask her, "Why do you treat me this way?

You have so much love for Frank. I just needed a little.

Couldn't you spare just a bit for me?"