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."

I stepped past them and walked away.

Behind me, Dad's voice erupted like a sudden crack of thunder. "Jolene, you really are shameless! It's better without you around. Just looking at you makes me sick!"

For a brief moment, my footsteps faltered. Being spat at by the people closest to me sent a dull ache through my chest. But I didn't turn back. Without hesitation, I put distance between us.

I thought staying away would mean peace of mind, but only a few days passed before I had to seek them out again.

Grandma had fallen ill. The cold had worn down her body.

I had no money, no time, no options. I had to ask them for help.

When I arrived at the house I had left nearly a month ago, laughter spilled from inside, warm and full, like the glow of a candle flickering through a half-open door.

Through the narrow gap, I saw a room alive with celebration. The decorations were bright and festive. A group of people gathered around Fiona, singing the birthday song. She wore a party hat, her smile radiant, like a little princess.

I stood outside in the bitter wind for a long time.

…

I had been so busy taking care of Grandma that I forgot today was Fiona's birthday.

My own birthday had passed just half a month earlier.

Every year, my birthday had always been postponed so it could be celebrated together with hers.

This year, no one remembered mine. It had fallen right after my parents' divorce negotiations began. At the time, I was still a few days away from turning eighteen, so custody had to be decided.

On my birthday, I was at school. After class, Grandma brought me a few boiled eggs.

That was it—my only eighteenth birthday. Gone in an instant.

I never cared much for birthdays. Being forced to share a cake with Fiona year after year had long drained them of any joy. The taste of cream only left me feeling sick.

The memory that stood out the most was from elementary school.

As always, my birthday had been pushed back to be celebrated alongside hers. One of Dad's friends had gifted us an expensive box of imported chocolates. The packaging was beautiful and delicate.

Mom glanced at me and said, "Your sister is younger than you. You should let her have it."

And so, the entire box went to Fiona.

I didn't receive a single gift.

I had wanted those chocolates so badly, but I didn't dare ask. I knew it would be useless. If I said anything, I'd only be scolded for being greedy.

So, I saved up my allowance for weeks and bought one. Just one piece.

Once I had it, I couldn't bear to eat it. I kept it in my drawer, taking it out now and then just to look at it.

Then, Fiona saw it.

She started crying immediately, running to my parents, screaming that I had stolen her chocolate.

I thought if I explained clearly, the misunderstanding would be resolved.

I told them, "I bought this myself. I didn't take it from her box."

But before I could finish, Mom's palm struck my cheek.

"So young, and already a liar. What kind of person will you grow up to be? If you didn't steal from your sister, are you saying she falsely accused you?"

The slap stung, but her words hurt even more.

By then, I had already learned not to expect fairness.

I met her gaze calmly and said, "If you don't believe me, I'll take you to the store."

So I did.

The store owner remembered me.

She had asked why I hadn't come with my parents when I'd handed her a pile of crumpled bills in exchange for a single piece of expensive candy.

She confirmed my story.

Finally, my parents realized they had been wrong.

But they never apologized.

Instead, they shoved me toward the door, telling me to hurry up and leave.

"You've embarrassed us enough. All this fuss over one piece of chocolate? How petty."

Children don't understand things like embarrassment or pride.

They only know that everyone else gets something, and they don't.

And when they don't, they try to get it for themselves.

And yet, even then, they're blamed for it.

In the end, I ate that chocolate.

I had to. If I waited any longer, it would've melted.

I had imagined it would taste sweet.