cut into the cake that bore her own name. Something inside me went completely still. The anger didn’t boil; it froze into a hard, crystalline clarity. I realized that my family didn’t just dislike me; they were willing to use a five-year-old as a pawn in their game of control.
Then came the final insult: the presents. The gift bags my parents had brought and the wrapped boxes from Clare were all handed directly to Olivia. My mother smiled as she watched Olivia tear into the paper, stating casually that
