My mother spent half her life competing with my Aunt Grace Abbott, and nothing gave her more pleasure than doing the exact opposite of whatever Grace did.

Aunt Grace raised my cousin Stella with every luxury money could buy—never once hesitating to spend.

My mother, Vivian Pruitt, insisted on raising me in deprivation.

She forced me to scavenge through trash to feed myself. One steamed bun a day—that was my allowance.

"Coddling only breeds weakness. Hunger and hardship forge willpower. Someday you'll surpass your cousin by miles."

After graduation, Aunt Grace couldn't resist showing off that Stella had landed a boyfriend from a wealthy family.

That very same day, my mother tore my job offer to shreds—an offer from one of the top companies in the country.

Then she sold me off in marriage to the bald, four-times-married man next door. The bride price? One dollar.

"I always knew your aunt was selling her daughter for status. Mark my words, your cousin's headed for disaster. I'm not asking you to marry rich. I just want you with a man who'll treat you right. And you will give him three sons before your cousin's wedding—just to put her in her place."

I stood frozen.

A wave of helplessness rose from somewhere deep inside me, so heavy it crushed the air from my lungs.

This time, I didn't fight back. I accepted it with a calm I didn't feel.

——

I'd thought landing that offer would finally make her happy. Finally get her to stop.

But in the end, I realized the truth.

This war she waged against Aunt Grace—it would never end. Not in this lifetime.

A reckless idea sparked in my mind. I had to take the gamble.

When my mother saw me nod, her face split into a grin.

"I knew you'd agree! Do you have any idea how long I searched to find you such a good man?"

"Think about it—the moment you marry him, you get three sons for free! Pop out three more, and who could possibly compete with you?"

"Sure, Joel Lambert's a little older, but older men have their advantages. He'll know how to take care of you..."

There are moments when you're so far beyond words that all you can do is laugh.

The man next door—old enough for me to call Dad.

All four of his previous wives had died of cancer, leaving behind three half-grown boys. Every woman in the neighborhood crossed the street to avoid him. But my mother couldn't wait to shove me into that fire.

Her obsession with one-upping Aunt Grace had reached the point where my life or death simply didn't factor in.

Something tore open in my chest, and cold wind poured through the gap.

As if she hadn't driven enough knives into my heart over the years.

When Aunt Grace enrolled Stella in art classes and horseback riding lessons, my mother immediately dumped every household chore on me. "What's the point of all that nonsense? Better you stay home and help me."

When Stella sneezed, Aunt Grace rushed her to the hospital for a full checkup. When my appendix nearly ruptured and I was writhing on the floor in agony, my mother stood over me and scolded, "Don't be like your cousin—running to the hospital over nothing."

Aunt Grace sent Stella abroad early to polish her credentials, despite Stella's grades being abysmal. When I got accepted to a top university, my mother blocked me from going. "Degrees are worthless these days. You'd be better off working a factory line."

If it weren't for the school principal and my teachers showing up one after another to talk sense into her, I'd have dropped out long ago.

So no—her reaching this level of cruelty didn't surprise me. Not one bit.

I was tired. Numb. Done fighting.

I turned and walked into my room.

She followed me to the doorway.

"Sweetheart, I'm doing this for your own good."

"Why would a girl like you want to kill herself working at some big company? Better to find an honest man and settle into a real life."

"Your cousin snagged a rich boy—sure, looks glamorous on the surface. But playboys get bored. Sooner or later, he'll toss her aside."

She said this with an easy smile. Perfectly at peace.

And me? I felt like a fishbone had lodged in my throat.

Couldn't cough it up. Couldn't swallow it down.

She was the only family I had in this world.

And every single time, she'd push me to the edge of a cliff—then press her hand to her heart and say those words, I'm doing this for your own good, as if that made black white and wrong right.

As if I were the ungrateful one—the daughter too foolish to see her mother's good intentions.

I said nothing and shut the bedroom door.

The thought gnawed at me all night, shredding any hope of real sleep. My mother's face flickered behind my eyelids, then my aunt's, both blurred and shifting like figures in a fever dream.

The next morning, my mother's voice dragged me out of a fitful doze.

"Irene, get up! Aunt Grace and her family are here."

I opened the door with dark circles carved under my eyes, my face drawn and pale.

And froze.

There, on the sofa, sitting right beside my cousin, was my ex-boyfriend.

Stella Acevedo rose gracefully and gestured toward him with an easy smile.

"Irene, this is my boyfriend, Rhys Gilbert. Turns out you two went to the same school!"

Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice. I stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to think.

Sophomore year.

I'd been working three jobs to scrape together tuition, running myself so ragged that my blood sugar crashed and I collapsed. Rhys Gilbert happened to be passing by. Without a word, he'd scooped me onto his back and carried me to the campus clinic.

After that, we started dating.

Six months later, he graduated and left the country to study abroad. I knew the gap between us was too wide, so I was the one who ended it.

Now, two years later, he was my cousin's boyfriend.

Rhys extended his hand, his smile polite and distant. "Nice to meet you."

The taut wire that had been holding me together finally snapped.

Bitterness surged up my throat. Even breathing hurt—a dull, spreading ache behind my ribs.

I couldn't bring myself to take his hand. "Excuse me—I need to go wash up."

I fled to the bathroom, scooped cold water over my face again and again until the shock receded enough for me to think straight.

Then the doorbell rang.

"Irene, go see who that is!" my mother called.

I opened the front door. Joel Lambert stood on the step, a bag of groceries in each hand, grinning at me like an idiot.

My mother rushed over and took the bags from him. "Joel! Come in, come in."

She turned to the room, beaming. "Everyone, let me introduce you—this is Irene's fiancé. They're getting married in a few days."

"He's an incredible cook. I invited him over specifically to handle the kitchen for us today."

Joel bared a mouthful of yellowed teeth. "You're too kind, ma'am. I'm nothing special—just know my way around a few home-cooked dishes."

"Oh, stop being modest! You're the go-to chef for every big banquet in the village. Our Irene is going to eat well for the rest of her life."

The air went still.

Every pair of eyes in the room locked onto me—surprise, confusion, mockery, contempt—each gaze a needle driven straight through my skin.

I held myself upright by sheer force of will, enduring the humiliation as it carved into me piece by piece.

A flicker of shock crossed Rhys's eyes, but it dissolved almost instantly into something colder. Derision.

I dug my nails so deep into my palms that the pain was the only thing keeping me from breaking apart.

Stella's eyes went wide. "Irene? This… old man is your fiancé?"

My mother feigned a scowl. "Stella, don't talk about your future brother-in-law like that. He's not even fifty yet."

Joel let out an awkward laugh. "That's right—forty-nine. Still got a month to go. Anyway, you all chat. I'll get started on the food."

"See?" My mother swept a hand toward his retreating back. "That's the kind of man you want—hardworking, no games, no nonsense."

She gave me a shove. "Go on. Help Joel in the kitchen."

Through the haze clouding my vision, I caught it—the faintest curl of satisfaction at the corner of my mother's lips.

The color drained from my face. My feet might as well have been nailed to the floor. I couldn't move. I wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

Grace couldn't sit still any longer. She shot to her feet.

"Vivian, a child's marriage isn't something to treat lightly. As parents, we have a responsibility to make sure it's right."

"Irene graduated from a top university. She could have her pick of anyone. Why on earth would you set her up with—"

My mother cut her off without a shred of hesitation. "This is our family's business. Besides, Irene agreed to it herself."

My mother's hand found the small of my back where no one could see, and she twisted the skin—hard.

"Sweetheart, go on and tell your aunt yourself. Otherwise she'll think I'm forcing you."

The pain shot up my spine. I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted copper, forcing the words through clenched teeth. "Yes. I'm willing."

As if unwillingness would have changed anything.

The first time I went out to collect recyclables, I came home filthy from head to toe. Aunt Grace looked at me with heartbreak in her eyes and turned on my mother. "Vivian, how could you send a child that young out to pick through garbage?"

"What? She wanted to toughen herself up. I'm her mother—you think I'd force her?"

It would have been better if Aunt Grace never asked at all. Every time she intervened, even with a single question, my mother took it as a challenge. And the price was always paid by me, doubled.

So I could only stand in front of my aunt and say I was willing.

Grace sank onto the sofa like a balloon with all the air punched out of it. She didn't say another word for a long time.

Even Stella and Rhys stayed silent. The living room felt like a sealed room with the oxygen slowly draining out.

I drew several deep breaths, repeating the same warning to myself over and over.

Don't lose it. Don't let Rhys see you fall apart again.

Before long, Joel emerged from the kitchen with a full spread—ten dishes and a soup.

Nobody had any appetite. Forks moved, food shifted around plates, but no one really ate.

No one except my mother, who was practically vibrating with enthusiasm, heaping praise on every dish Joel set down.

"Joel is such a catch! A man who can cook—now that's a real man."

I felt like a hollow shell, a body with nothing left inside.

I shoveled food into my mouth mechanically, bite after tasteless bite, until my stomach refused to accept one more mouthful.

Then I bolted to the bathroom and threw it all up.

When I walked Aunt Grace's family to the door, she leaned in close and kept her voice low. "Irene, if you ever find yourself in real trouble, you come to me. Promise me."

I nodded. I did need her help. Just not yet.

The moment everyone was gone, my mother's face curdled. "Was your aunt talking behind my back again?"

"No," I said quickly. "She was just making small talk."

"Don't think I can't see right through her. The second Stella lands herself some trust-fund boyfriend, Grace drags the whole family over here to rub it in my face."

"Well, I showed her. A pretty-boy son-in-law who can't do a damn thing around the house? Give me a man who can cook any day."

"And let me make one thing clear—stay away from your aunt from now on. That woman has never had your best interests at heart."

I murmured a few vague agreements, enough to keep her temper from flaring again.

That was when Rhys's message popped up on my screen.

You broke up with me just so you could marry some old man?

Wait—was it the cooking? Irene, your taste gets more "unique" by the day. Congratulations on finding yourself a live-in father figure.

The softest, most guarded place inside me—the part I never let anyone near—was shredded to ribbons.

Rhys was everything. Too good. So good I never felt worthy of standing beside him.

I had clung to every smile he gave me, hoarded every moment of warmth like a beggar counting coins.

But the longer we were together, the more terrified I became.

Between us lay a chasm I could never cross, and it left me no choice but to tear myself away.

Now I couldn't even bring myself to explain. Not a single word.

I deleted his contact immediately.

Because if I replied—even once—I knew I'd never be able to let go.

I don't remember how I made it back to my room.

All I could do was wrap my arms around myself, bury my face between my knees, and cry until there was nothing left.

That afternoon, Stella posted photos in the family group chat—snapshots of her and Rhys out together, sightseeing.

Every image dripped with easy, tender closeness.

My mother enlarged them one by one, studying each photo, then going back to study it again.

A faint smile curled at the corner of her mouth—so small it was almost invisible.

When she caught me watching, she let out a sharp scoff.

"Showing off. All smiles today—tomorrow she'll be crying somewhere, just you wait."