My stepmother and stepsister spent years mocking me, calling me useless, treating me like I was nothing. I scrubbed their floors, wore their cast-offs, stayed silent. But one night, in a room full of people, I finally made them regret every cruel word they had ever thrown at me.
I never imagined my life would turn into this.
Growing up, I dreamed of becoming a fashion designer, of living in a small apartment filled with fabrics and coffee mugs, of waking up excited about my work.
Instead, I woke up to my stepmother banging on my door, yelling that I had forgotten to unload the dishwasher. Again.
“I swear, Emma, do you ever do anything right?
You’re useless!” she barked from the kitchen, her voice slicing through the thin walls like a knife.
I sat up slowly, dragging myself out of the blanket I had wrapped like armor. My room barely fit a twin mattress and a wobbly dresser with one broken drawer.
Piles of laundry lined the floor like dull reminders of everything I didn’t have time or energy for.
Meanwhile, Bella, my stepsister, had an entire floor to herself, with a private bathroom, a balcony, and a walk-in closet full of designer dresses my stepmother loved to brag about.
“I’ll do it now,” I called back, my voice raspy with exhaustion.
“You better. Bella needs the kitchen clean so she can steam her dress,” she snapped, like I was the maid and not the other daughter in the house.
Of course. The dress.
Another luxury item to add to Bella’s collection—this one for an exclusive party she’d been crowing about all month.
Apparently, the city’s most eligible bachelor would be there. I had learned long ago not to ask for anything.
Every item I owned came from thrift stores, clearance racks, or donations.
I’d stitched the same pair of jeans three times. My favorite shirt was someone else’s discard.
I entered the kitchen and found Bella sitting at the island in a silk robe, sipping her smoothie and scrolling through her phone like she owned the world.
“Nice shirt,” she muttered without looking up. “Vintage dumpster?”
“Good morning to you, too,” I murmured, moving toward the dishwasher.
“Mom, did you hear that?” Bella scoffed.
“Emma thinks sarcasm makes her interesting.”
“Don’t start, Bella,” my stepmother said, still glued to her tablet. “Emma, after you finish, can you clean the bathroom? And the patio?
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