Scarlett’s lips curled slightly, and it made her bright red lipstick look even more noticeable.

And just like that, she moved into our house without any fuss.

A new towel appeared on the bathroom rack, and a new cup with her toothbrush showed up on the sink.

But she did not just want to add her things to the house. She wanted to erase everything that reminded us of my mom and replace it with her own stuff.

She made huge changes.

She replaced the couch, threw out the cabinets, and even removed the kitchen hood. The house looked completely different.

She even wanted to take down my mom’s wedding photo that hung in my room.

When my mom left, she took everything she could.

The heavy wedding photo no longer held much meaning for her, so she left it behind. In the end, it became the only thing I had to remember her by.

Sometimes, when I looked at the photo, at my mom’s face that felt both familiar and distant, it almost felt like she was looking back at me.

Today, my dad was at work, and Scarlett had the day off.

I was in my room doing homework when she walked in with a plate of sliced fruit. She knocked lightly on the door and said in a fake, friendly tone, “Are you tired? Have some fruit and take a break.”

I glanced at her and quietly slid my phone, which was still on, under a book.

She noticed what I did but did not say anything. Instead, she turned to look at the wedding photo and started studying it.

She stared at the photo of my mom and said, “You’re as pretty as your mom. But a big photo like this doesn’t look good on the wall. I’m planning to renovate your room and put a cabinet here. You should take the photo down.”

Her tone was polite, and it sounded like she was doing it for me.

But I could see the malice and dislike in her eyes as she looked at my mom’s face in the photo.

I simply said, “No.”

She did not expect me to refuse so directly. The speech she had prepared was useless. After a moment, she tried again and talked at length to convince me.

But I kept saying no. I was cold and distant each time.

After getting rejected repeatedly, her face darkened, and she left my room.

When she called me for lunch, she was cold. She stopped pretending to be warm or trying to get my approval like before.

But as soon as my dad came home that evening, she ran to complain to him.

Of course, she did not mention the wedding photo.

Instead, she put on a guilty look and said, “Maybe I shouldn’t have bought her that phone. It’s my fault. I thought it would help her study or relax a bit.

“But today, she said she was doing homework, yet she stayed in her room all day playing on it. When I brought her some fruit, she quickly hid it under a book. I wonder what she’s using her phone for.”

I never thought she would complain to my dad so directly.

Before this, anyone who saw me using my phone, whether relatives or family friends, would either say nothing or remind me to stop in private.

None of them told my dad about it like she did.

That night, my dad had been drinking. After hearing her, he got furious. With a cigarette in his mouth, he kicked my door open.

My dad had broken the lock on my door long ago. All that was left was a hole where it used to be.

The thin door was covered with small cracks and stains that could not be cleaned. Each one was a sign of the violence he had caused.

He kicked the door open easily.

Without saying a word, he grabbed my arm, yanked me out of bed, and dragged me to the floor in one motion.

I was not prepared and felt dizzy from being pulled so suddenly.

My arm was twisted painfully, like it was about to pop out of its socket, and I could not stop myself from wincing.

Before I could even think, he slapped me hard across the face.

He was so much stronger than me that I could not fight back even if I wanted to.

I did not even have the chance to think about resisting before that thought was completely crushed.

He had a cigarette in his mouth, and smoke swirled around him. The glowing tip flickered, and he angrily shouted, “Just a few days without a beating, and you’re already acting out! Your stepmom bought you that phone to help with your studies, yet you spent the whole day playing on it!”

I tried to get up, but he slapped me again before I could.

“Did you finish your homework?! Did you get good grades on your exams?! Looks like all that studying was wasted on you! Your stepmom even cooked and called you to eat, but you didn’t come out! Do we need to feed you like a baby?!”

My face was on fire, and my ears were ringing. My ears, eyes, and scalp all throbbed with pain.

I did not dare look up. I stared blankly at his slippers and whispered nervously, “I didn’t…”

But I did not dare to explain myself.

My whole body was shaking.

“Didn’t what?! I’ve raised you all these years! Don’t I know exactly what kind of person you are?!”

His voice rumbled like thunder and shook the room.

He grabbed the dictionary from my desk and smashed it against my head.

I let out a scream, but I quickly swallowed it. Holding my head, I stayed quiet. I was too scared to make another sound.

Then came the third, fourth, and fifth slaps.

Each time I was knocked down, I would try to get up, only to be hit again.

Finally, blood started dripping from my nose, and he stopped.

My face no longer hurt. It just felt numb. Tears, snot, saliva, and blood mixed on my face, leaving a salty, bitter taste.

But he was not satisfied with just that. I knew he wanted me to say things like “I’m sorry” and “I won’t do it again,” just like before.

He would prefer if I cried and begged on my knees while saying those things.

This was how my dad and I had been since my mom left when I was in third grade.

But there was someone else in the house—Scarlett, the woman I hated more than anything.

I refused to cry or beg in front of her. I did not want her to see my pathetic side.

If she had not told on me to my dad…

If she had not given me that phone…

If she had not clung to my dad…

If none of this had happened, I would not be getting hit.

I hated her.

I hated her so much I wished she would just disappear.

That dark thought first appeared the moment my dad slapped me.

At first, the thought was just a faint idea, but with each slap, it became stronger and clearer.

I blamed everything on Scarlett.

I blamed her, even though she screamed and tried to stop my dad when he burst into my room, dragged me out of bed, and threw me on the floor.

In a panic, she grabbed his arm and tried to stop him. She even stepped in front of me a few times, only for him to shove her aside.

Her white nightgown smelled nice, and it made her face look even paler.

She shook as she raised her arm to stop my dad and repeatedly tried to defend me and plead for me. She was so nervous that she almost bit her tongue.

“No, no… don’t hit her, maybe I made a mistake…”

She tried to say nice things about me, even though we had barely spent any time together.

“Pearl is a good girl. She’s very polite. She even helped me with the dishes. She’s been doing her homework. She probably just wanted a break. Maybe she wasn’t playing on her phone.”

I watched her, and her fake concern made me sick.

My stomach twisted, and I started to gag.

I still blamed everything on her.

So, one night, I took the 20,000 dollars my dad had locked in the drawer and put it in her coat pocket.

My dad was a downright working-class person.

He liked to smoke, drink, gamble, and take his anger out on me.

Since he could not hit anyone else, he hit me.

Even at his age, he did not have a stable job. He just took whatever work he could find.

Sometimes, he fixed pipes; other times, he worked at construction sites.

He earned money only when he worked.

After divorcing my mom, he had been looking for a decent woman to settle down with for the rest of his life.

The first time I met Scarlett was when my dad forced me to go to a dinner with him.

He forced me there because she liked kids, especially girls.

He treated me like a gift to her.

However, I was quiet and boring, so Scarlett did not spare my dad a glance because of me.

She sat next to my godfather and often served him food, but he ignored her. She kept trying, though.

Not long after, my godfather died in an accident. He got drunk, fell off a ladder, and badly injured his head.

It happened in a corner of an alley. He lay there from 2 a.m. until 7 a.m. when a janitor found him and called an ambulance.

The doctors said he was brain-dead and that even if he survived, he would have been in a coma.

His wife quickly decided to turn off the life support.

At his funeral, there were no tears. People just sighed and looked numb.

I only looked at him from a distance. I saw someone put a coin in his mouth.

My dad said it was to stop him from talking after death.

My dad did not show much emotion about his friend’s death, even though they were as close as siblings. He just said, “He would be a burden to his family if he were alive.”

Scarlett did not go to the funeral. She just sent a condolence gift through my dad.

Looking back, I guessed she knew she was not welcome, or maybe she felt that after my godfather died, he no longer had any value to her.