When I was six, I spilled hot water, slipped, and burned my face. My face was ruined. My parents learned their lesson and never let my younger sister do housework. To everyone they met, they praised her beauty, her charm. They turned to me with nothing but disdain.

When I was ten, I had a high fever. They didn't think much of it and let it drag on until my brain was damaged, leaving me slow and dull. They learned their lesson again. From then on, if my sister so much as coughed, they would rush her to the hospital in the dead of night, showering her with care.

I was like a failed experiment. Every mistake they made with me, they corrected for her.

I was ugly, silent, dim-witted, unwanted. She was beautiful, sweet-talking, clever, adored by all.

When I was diagnosed with depression, I gathered what little courage I had and told them. Mom lashed out, called me sick in the head, and accused me of being petty. If I was so capable, she said, I might as well die.

It wasn't until my sister pushed me off a high-rise that they found out, by sheer accident, that she wasn't their child at all.

I was their one and only biological child.

When Dad's affair was exposed, my parents took their divorce battle to court.

They had two children, so the judge decided each of them should take one.

Neither of them hesitated. They both chose my sister.

The judge hesitated instead and asked my sister to decide.

Fiona stood there in her little designer princess dress, our father on one side, our mother on the other.

Dad made his offer first. "Fiona, pick me. I can give you a better life. Haven't you always wanted a new tablet? I'll get you one tomorrow."

Mom noticed her shivering, took off her scarf, and wrapped it around her gently. "Fiona, you should stay with me. If your dad remarries, what will you do with a stepmother?"

And just like that, they started arguing again.

I stood in the corner, forgotten. A strange sense of awkwardness crept up on me, so I pulled up the zipper of my school jacket. The thin, faded fabric did nothing against the cold, and the wind slipped right through.

The courtroom was in chaos. Voices clashed.

Finally, the judge lost patience. He turned to them. "Neither of you wants custody of your eldest daughter?"

The room fell silent. An eerie, unnatural stillness.

My parent's gazes flickered, shifting uncomfortably. They didn't want to seem unfair, but they also didn't want to be the one stuck with me. They hesitated, stalling for time.

Now, everyone was staring at me. My throat tightened. I lowered my head, hoping no one would notice the ugly scars on my face.

Then Fiona spoke, leaving the matter to me. "Why don't you choose first, sis?"

The judge gave me an encouraging nod. "Who do you want to live with, Jolene?"

My parents looked at me, tense, as if afraid I might pick one of them.

I couldn't shrink back into silence anymore. I lowered my head and took my time before whispering, "I choose…"

I hesitated.

"Can I go to an orphanage instead?" I asked softly.

…

I never got to choose my parents, but now, I wanted to choose not to have them at all.

I would rather be an orphan.

Better that than living as a failed experiment.

When I was one, my parents were busy building their careers. They sent me to my grandma in the countryside and didn't take me back until four years later—only when Fiona had learned to talk.

They say children who are separated from their parents early may struggle to form close relationships. Maybe that's why I grew up distant, unable to be affectionate.

My parents found me cold and detached, so when they had a second child, they raised her by the book, doted on her personally, and nurtured a sweet, clingy little girl.

When I was six, Mom was too busy feeding Fiona to pour herself a glass of water. She told me to do it.

I was short and had to climb onto a stool to reach the kettle. I slipped. Boiling water spilled over my face, leaving hideous scars.

They learned their lesson.

From then on, Fiona never had to lift a finger. She grew up pampered, her hands untouched by work, her nails unchipped, her face radiant. My parents flaunted her beauty to everyone they met.

When people asked about me, their eldest daughter, they hesitated, as if remembering an unpleasant stain on their lives.

"She's got scars," they would joke with a laugh. "Wouldn't want to scare anyone by mentioning her."

No one remembers that before I turned six, I was an extraordinarily beautiful little girl.

When I was ten, I washed dishes and did laundry in the winter. The water was freezing, and I caught a cold. That night, I burned with fever, tossing and turning in pain. I cried out for my mom.

My parents, woken by the noise, were irritated. They gave me some fever medicine and went back to sleep, thinking it was nothing serious.

I burned the whole night. By the time they realized the fever hadn't broken and rushed me to the hospital, it was too late. The doctor told them my brain had been damaged. I might become slower, duller.

My parents were devastated. They had learned their lesson. From then on, whenever Fiona so much as coughed, they panicked. They would take her to the hospital in the middle of the night just to be sure. If she fell sick, they took turns watching over her, tending to her every need.

But I never had another fever again. I never got to experience that kind of careful, anxious love.

In middle school, I struggled to keep up. My mind was slow, so my grades were always at the bottom. The teachers suggested my parents hire a tutor or set aside time to help me study.

But their business was taking off, and they had no money for a tutor, no time to sit with me. They believed that if someone was truly smart, they would succeed on their own. If I couldn't, it only meant I wasn't trying hard enough.

My grades kept slipping. When the high school entrance exams came, I failed, just as expected, and ended up in the worst school in the city.

Only then did they realize that excellence wasn't something that appeared out of thin air. They turned all their hopes toward Fiona. By then, their business had stabilized. They could afford the best tutors, and they made time to supervise her studies.

She passed with flying colors and got into the top high school in the city.

They were so overjoyed that they hosted a banquet at a five-star hotel. They didn't bother telling me about it.

I was in my school dormitory, buried in textbooks, trying desperately to catch up. I had to work harder than everyone else just to achieve the same results.

A cousin from my school saw me buying a cheap bun for dinner. Thinking my parents had simply forgotten to pick me up, she invited me along.

So I ended up at the banquet, standing in the doorway, holding a plastic bag with two cold buns inside. My parents were in the center of the crowd, proudly introducing Fiona.

The moment they saw me, their faces darkened.

I stood there, suddenly feeling out of place, clutching my cheap dinner in my hands.

It wasn't until later that I understood. They hadn't told me on purpose. They didn't want others to know they had an ugly, stupid daughter. They were ashamed.

They had forgotten that before my brain burned, I was the top student in school.

In high school, my teeth started to jut out more. Relatives kept urging my parents to take me to the dentist. After being nagged several times, they finally found the time to bring me in.

The dentist took one look and said it was skeletal protrusion, a genetic issue. I needed orthognathic surgery, and the sooner, the better. But I was about to start my final year of high school, and my parents said I could save up for surgery myself once I got to university.

They didn't make the same mistake with Fiona. They got her braces early, fitted her with orthokeratology lenses to prevent nearsightedness, arranged for double eyelid surgery, and removed every little mole or blemish that appeared on her face.

Everyone who met her believed she was a natural beauty. They envied her flawless skin, free of even a single acne scar.

Now, I am eighteen. She is sixteen. I am in my final year of high school. She is in her first.

I am ugly, quiet, slow, unwanted. She is beautiful, sweet, clever, adored by everyone.

I feel like an experiment. Every mistake they made with me, they corrected on her.

…

I have parents. I am almost eighteen. Of course, I can't go to an orphanage.

In the end, my grandmother was the only one who took pity on me. She looked at them and said, "If none of you want Jolene, then I will take her. Don't come crying to me later, saying you want her back."

Grandma didn't understand legal procedures. What she did understand was that her granddaughter was hers to protect.

Without hesitation, she took my hand and led me away, ignoring the disapproving looks behind her. What happened after that, I never found out.

When I was little, Grandma raised me in her old house. The conditions were modest, but I never felt uneasy. There was a quiet comfort in that place.

Half a month passed. The college entrance exams were approaching, and I was boarding at school, returning home only once every two or three weeks. That day, it rained heavily. I held an umbrella, walking toward the bus stop, when someone blocked my path.

It was my mom, livid. "Jolene, Fiona is at the school across the street. It's raining, and she doesn't have an umbrella. As her older sister, shouldn't you know to bring her one?"

My dad's car idled near the school gate. My mom sat in the passenger seat, clearly unwilling to step out into the rain. The car couldn't drive in, and Fiona wouldn't come out without an umbrella. So they expected me to take mine to her.

I didn't ask why they were still picking her up together. Instead, I looked down and refused, gently but firmly. "I only have one umbrella."

If I gave it to her, what would I do? I had no car to shield me from the rain.

My mom's fury flared. She got out of the car and, in front of my teachers and classmates, smacked the back of my head. I stumbled forward, humiliated. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the downpour.

"It's just an umbrella! You're the older sister, it's your duty to give it to her! Would it make you happy if she got sick in the rain?"

People around us turned to stare. My dignity crumbled under their gazes.

I kept my head down, silent for a long time, then spoke softly. "If I get wet, I'll get sick too."

She wasn't expecting defiance. Her authority as a mother was being challenged. Enraged, she struck me again and yanked the umbrella from my hand. "Ungrateful brat," she muttered, opening the umbrella to go fetch Fiona.

I lifted my gaze and watched her. Then, without a word, I snatched the umbrella back, threw it to the ground, and stomped on it until it was ruined. I pulled off the canopy and used it to cover my schoolbag.

Then I walked away, letting the rain drench me, ignoring her shouts behind me.

Cold drops struck my face. Soon, my uniform was soaked through. At the bus stop, people eyed me warily, stepping away as if afraid my dampness would cling to them.

A girl about Fiona's age hesitated, then handed me a pack of tissues. "Here. Wipe off the rain, or you'll catch a cold."

Something in me cracked. Others followed her lead. Someone placed a hand warmer in my palm. Their concern pressed against the raw edges of my chest, and before I could stop them, a few tears slipped out. I wiped them away quickly, pretending it was just the rain.

I forced a smile, murmuring, "Thank you."

How ironic. Strangers showed me more kindness than my own parents ever did.

…

The next day, Fiona arrived at my school with my parents. They had come to apologize.

Mom's face was stiff. "Jolene, I was too hasty yesterday. Don't take it to heart."

Even apologies felt like commands.

Fiona clung to my hand, her voice sweet and coaxing. "Jolene, Mom already said sorry. Come home, okay?"

Her enthusiasm felt off. Too eager. Too deliberate.

I tilted my head. "What are you saying? Isn't our family already broken apart?"

The three of them exchanged looks, finally realizing they owed me an explanation. That night, they had fought over divorce. It had escalated, but then Fiona cried. And when she cried, they softened. They decided divorce might affect her studies, so they put it on hold.

The three of them stood before me now, perfectly intact. No one had even thought to tell me.

No one had worried that their divorce might affect me, a high school senior about to take my exams.

I stared at them, my voice even. "I'm sorry, but I already took it to heart."