I never hid my dislike for this awful woman.

I often thought that she was the one who caused my godfather’s death.

There was no real reason for thinking that. Malicious thoughts did not need a reason.

After my godfather died, she immediately turned to my dad.

I knew she wanted to kill him this time.

A week passed since she complained to my dad about me, and my cheek was still swollen.

The bruise on my forehead from when my dad hit me with the dictionary had not healed, and my hatred had not faded either.

My dad was unusually busy that week. He was working hard to make money to keep her happy.

Sometimes, he even stayed out all night.

After that day, she was more careful toward me, even when asking me to eat. If she heard even the smallest sound, like a pen dropping in my room, she would ask if everything was okay.

While my dad was trying to please her, she was trying to win me over.

She asked my dad about what I liked and bought a lot of small cakes. She would quietly bring them to my room, but I would put them in the living room without eating them.

After a few failed attempts, she could not take it anymore. One day at dinner, she awkwardly said, “I didn’t know your dad would get so angry. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

Her spoon hit the plate, and she added, “Please don’t think badly of me. I’m not that kind of person.”

She picked up some meat and carefully put it in my bowl.

She watched me closely but pretended to act calm as she ate.

What kind of person?

She was evil, had a bad character, used dirty tricks, and had no dignity.

That was exactly the kind of person she was.

I did not want to talk about what she brought up.

So, I slammed my spoon down, went back to my room, and left her awkwardly alone at the table.

I tossed and turned in bed. Every time I turned to one side, my cheek hurt badly. It was like tiny needles were poking at it.

I could not help but start hurting myself by slapping my own face. In my mind, I angrily cursed and hoped the pain would stop. I kept thinking about Scarlett and could not fall asleep until late at night.

So, I got up. In the dim moonlight, I quickly found the key in the corner of the bathroom and unlocked the drawer in my dad’s wardrobe.

In that drawer were all of my dad’s important things: his divorce papers, our health insurance cards, our IDs, and my elementary school diploma.

Most importantly, it held the 20,000 dollars my grandfather left me for college.

I quietly put the money into Scarlett’s coat pocket.

I did not think anyone would see through such a clumsy, childish act of revenge. After all, sneaky actions like this were exactly what you would expect from a scheming woman who enjoyed being a mistress.

She was sound asleep. She lay in the same bed where my dad and mom once slept and was completely at ease.

Three days later, I told my dad, “When school starts, students need health insurance. If they don’t get it through the school, they need to show proof.”

My dad looked at me. He got up, went to the bathroom in his slippers, and then started searching through the wardrobe.

Scarlett was sitting on the couch. She had my dad watch her favorite soap opera with her. When she saw him go to find my health insurance card, she smiled at me.

She stopped peeling the orange, handed it to me, and said, “If the school doesn’t accept the proof, you can just get it done there. I’ll pay for it.”

I looked at the orange she handed me and, surprisingly, smiled at her.

I said, “It’s okay, Stepmom.”

She froze for a moment, but when she saw me take the orange and start eating it, she quickly snapped out of it, smiled, and began peeling another one for me.

She peeled it so fast and nervously that her nails dug into the orange peel and squeezed out the juice.

“Do you like it? I can buy more tomorrow. It’s sweet, right?”

I felt like laughing as I watched her. A strange, secret satisfaction bubbled up inside me and almost made me grin from ear to ear.

Before she could finish speaking, my dad came out of the bedroom with a dark expression.

He was holding my health insurance card in one hand, and his other hand was clenched into a fist.

His eyes darted between me and Scarlett. Then, through gritted teeth, he asked, “Who touched the drawer in the wardrobe?”

The veins on his arms were bulging, and his expression was terrifying.

As I had lived with him for over ten years, I knew this was the warning sign before he lost his temper.

From the moment my dad started questioning me to glaring at me with cold, sharp eyes and rolling up his sleeves to hit me, it all happened in under two minutes.

When I was little, during the New Year, while everyone else was celebrating and enjoying fireworks, he kicked me out of the house. He pinned me down in the snow and beat me until I was crying and begging for mercy.

It was all because I had dared to tell him at the dinner table to drink less.

When my dad questioned us, Scarlett looked up, confused, and asked, “What drawer?”

She was completely innocent, of course, but I had to act even more innocent than her.

I stayed silent and stared blankly at my dad.

When he did not get an answer, he lost his patience and said directly, “The 20,000 dollars in the drawer is gone.”

Scarlett looked even more confused. “Money? Could it be that you put it somewhere else when you were drunk last time?”

I glanced at my dad, then at Scarlett.

He stared at her face for a long time and tried to find any trace of guilt.

But then he turned to me, grabbed my shoulder, and shouted, “Did you take it?!”

I did not dare look up, and my body started shaking again.

I tried hard to stop my arms from trembling.

A moment later, I decided to look my dad straight in the eye. I calmly said, “I didn’t take it.”

I was lying, just like he had lied countless times to cheat money from my grandparents or make excuses to borrow money from my godfather.

I was his daughter, after all. I had his blood and looked so much like him that anyone could tell we were related with just one glance.

So, naturally, I inherited his ability to lie effortlessly.

He did not push me further. On the surface, he seemed to believe Scarlett’s idea that he must have misplaced the money while drunk, but I knew he was suspicious of everyone in the house.

He started searching everywhere, and Scarlett helped him.

Finally, after all their searching, I watched as my dad pulled a thick wad of cash from Scarlett’s coat pocket.

Dad was not the only one who froze in shock. Scarlett was also rooted to the spot.

Scarlett was not stupid. She knew what it meant for the money to be found in her pocket.

Her face turned pale as a sheet. She grabbed my dad’s sleeve and desperately said, “No, it wasn’t me! How could the money end up in my coat?”

“I didn’t even know there was a drawer in the wardrobe. How could I take the money?”

My dad stiffened and seemed to be thinking about something. He nodded but did not say anything else.

That night, for the first time, I heard them arguing in their room.

At first, it was just quiet talking. Then, someone slammed the table, and a cup got knocked over.

Scarlett was screaming but trying hard to keep her voice down. Every word she said sounded twisted and broken.

“How could I have taken it?! I’ve only been here a short time! Yes, I cleaned the room after I moved in. I admit I knew there was a drawer, but I don’t have the key! Do you think I want your money?

“Do you think I don’t know how much money you have? I bought you cigarettes and alcohol and even gave you money to gamble with other people. Why do you think it couldn’t have been your daughter? She hates me and is trying to set me up to make me leave. Can’t you see that?”

…

I crouched by the door and listened in. I could not help but laugh quietly to myself. After hearing her sudden cry, I felt that my cheek did not hurt anymore.

I wanted to laugh out loud, but I could not.

Instead, I had to hold back my laughter and make strange, muffled sounds pathetically.

In a daze, I heard my dad say, “Listen. My mom and my daughter are my bottom line. That money my dad left for my daughter’s college fund is off-limits. I don’t care what you’re planning, but if you go after them, I won’t let you get away with it.”

My dad was such a hypocrite.

He always said these things in front of others and acted like he cared about me and my grandmother, but he still hit me and cheated my grandmother out of her pension money.

All he had to do was speak nicely, and people would praise him without hesitation.

He said it so seriously, and Scarlett believed him just as much.

As soon as my dad slammed the door and left, I eagerly opened the door to enjoy my victory.

Scarlett was sitting on the floor in a mess. The oranges from the table had rolled all over the place. They were near her bare feet and the slippers she had thrown.

When she heard me, she looked up. Her tears fell endlessly like beads slipping from a broken necklace.

Her tears were silent, but at that moment, I heard the trumpet of victory.

Every time a tear fell, I felt a bit happier.

Her hair was messy and hung around her face.

I stood at the door and watched for a while. Then, slowly, I stepped over the oranges and walked up to her. I bent over and threw an orange onto her lap.

I crouched down to look her in the eye and whispered, “Get out. This is my house.”