But that person couldn't be me.

In elementary school, I won first place in a math competition. The whole school competed.

When I got the certificate, I raced home in excitement. I tripped and fell, but I didn't even feel the pain. I scrambled up and rushed to show Mom, eager to share my joy.

Mom glanced at it, then tore my certificate to shreds.

"Why are you good at math?

"You're my daughter. Why are you so much like him?

"So what if you're like your father? He won't love you either!

"Are you trying to upset me on purpose? Why math of all things?"

All because my father was a math teacher.

Mom destroyed everything I had that related to math.

All those tests with bright red A+'s, she threw them into the fireplace, watching them turn to ash.

I cried out, but her cold voice cut through the air: "You really aren't my daughter. You're his."

From that day on, my mother wasn't Mom anymore. She was Miss Anderson.

And I never dared to show any talent for math again.

I sat awkwardly at the dinner table, feeling out of place.

Mother casually put some salad and cold pasta in front of me.

She lovingly peeled shrimp for Bradley.

"Our star should eat more," she said.

The words "our star" felt like a dull knife slowly piercing my heart.

I picked at the vegetables, unable to help envying the mountain of shrimp on Bradley's plate.

Maybe I stared too long.

Bradley put a piece of shrimp my mother had peeled onto my plate, but my mother quickly moved it back.

"She's not smart enough to need the extra protein. You've worked hard lately, eat more."

I lowered my head and quietly ate my rice, letting tears silently fall onto the grains.

It tasted bitter, as if adding an extra flavor to the plain rice.

When the cake came out, my eyes snapped into focus.

I had a tiny hope that my mother might realize it was my birthday.

Knowing that bigger hopes lead to bigger disappointments, I only allowed myself to hope a little.

But my mother frowned: "Why did you buy a birthday cake? Whose birthday is it? You really don't think, do you?"

Maybe she wished more than I did that I'd never been born.

"Bradley, your birthday's next month, right? Let's celebrate early. Happy birthday, Bradley!"

The room went fuzzy, but my vision sharpened.

She put a party hat on Bradley, her movements awkward.

She urged Bradley to make a wish.

The seventeen candles flickered.

I wished myself a happy birthday in my heart.

I wished my mother would love me, even a little.

Bradley opened his eyes: "Let's blow out the candles together."

I refused, knowing my wish would never come true.

Even though the cake was tiny, Bradley tried to share it with me, but my mother stopped him.

"This cake is for your first-place win. It's already so small. If you give her some, what will you eat?"

I forced a smile, "You guys enjoy it. I don't like cake."

No one knew that the small cake my mother mentioned was bought with money I'd earned delivering the papers.

My mother didn't like me and didn't care about my life.

She only gave me money for food, no other allowance.

She loaded it based on the teacher's cafeteria prices.

But the teachers' cafeteria was much cheaper than the students'.

The money she gave me could barely cover my meals.

The lunch ladies pitied me. They always gave me a vegetarian option at that price, sometimes "accidentally" adding a bit of meat.

Perhaps for an unloved child, even surviving takes tremendous effort.

My relationship with my mother completely shattered when Bradley confessed his feelings for me.

When he stood before me, face flushed, nervously saying "I like you," I was tempted to use him to get my mother's attention.

In the end, I didn't. I turned Bradley down.

But he persisted, coming to our house more often, even slipping love notes into my room.

One day, I came home to find my mother waiting, letter in hand.

Before I could speak, she slapped me hard across the face.

I clutched my cheek, bewildered.

She threw the letter at me.

"Bradley isn't like you. He's Ivy League material!"

"Your father doesn't care about you, and I can't control you. I'm not even your homeroom teacher. You could be working the streets for all I care!"

"But you absolutely cannot seduce my student!"

Seduce? I couldn't fathom why that word came from my mother's mouth.

But I refused to take the blame for something I hadn't done.

"He came to me!"

My mother grabbed my hair: "So now you're talking back! If you didn't lead him on, why would he confess to you and not someone else?"

She dragged me to my room.

She seized my clothes and shredded them with scissors.

I stared at the scraps on the floor.

She'd probably forgotten these were hand-me-downs from my cousin.

The cousin she considered the perfect young lady.

It seemed that in her eyes, even my birth was a mistake.

Yet she was the one who had desperately wanted to bring me into this world.

I don't remember leaving the house.

When I came to, I was outside Dad's apartment building.

I didn't want to disturb his new family.

But as I turned to go, I saw them.

His little girl perched on his shoulders.

His wife was smiling, playing with the child.

The moment she saw me, her smile vanished.

It seemed I was unwanted everywhere.

I awkwardly tried to leave.

But Dad came after me.

Looking at this aging man, perhaps softened by his new daughter, his face had lost its sternness.

I wanted to call out, but didn't know what to say.

They all treated my birth as a disgrace.

The words caught in my throat, and all I managed was: "Mr. Jefferson."

Dad nodded, smiling, and took out a hundred-dollar bill.

"Don't come here anymore. You've seen I have a new family now. Your sister might get jealous."

I shook my head, wanting to explain.

Then I heard a sweet little voice, "Daddy."

Dad's face lit up as he ran over.

He scooped up his little girl, who was seeking attention.

"Daddy, who is she?"

"A friend's child."

I was left standing alone, staring at the crumpled hundred in my hand.

Though both my parents were alive and within reach, I had long since lost any real family.

To them, I seemed nothing but a burden.

Their most shameful memory, the one they least wanted to recall.

My very existence seemed to constantly remind them of their past mistake.

I wandered for hours, until I thought my mother must have cooled off.

Then I saw the things outside our door.

Two small boxes containing all my belongings.

I knocked.

"Miss Anderson."

I wasn't even eighteen yet, and I had no friends. I had nowhere to go.

"Stop knocking! You're not just my kid. Go find your father!"

After the angry shout came the sound of the door locking.