Chapter 1The Substitute Sister

When I was seven, my dad brought home a little girl and told me to treat her like my own flesh-and-blood sister.

Later, I found out she was the daughter of his deceased first love.

From that day on, my dad’s eyes rarely landed on me.

My new sister, Chloe, had poor health, so my dad spent most of his time at the hospital with her.

He was there so much that he couldn't even make it back in time to see my mom before she died.

He apologized to me: "If you're angry, take it out on me. Don't blame your sister; she's fragile."

Normally, I would have thrown a massive fit and turned the house upside down.

But this time, I just looked calmly at the two of them. "As long as Chloe is okay."

* * *

My mom’s funeral was over. My dad cried so hard he was a mess; it took several people to pull him up from the ground.

Long after we got home, he sat staring blankly at a small box.

It was the first gift he had ever given my mom, and she couldn't bear to throw the box away.

Seeing me walk in, he hastily stood up and stumbled toward me, almost falling. "Did your mom leave any last words for me?"

I glanced at Chloe, who was standing timidly behind him, and shook my head. "Mom was in a lot of pain when she passed. She couldn't say anything."

Noticing my gaze, my dad subtly shifted his footing, moving to shield Chloe.

Even so, he was still anxious. He added, "Daddy is so sorry. This is all my fault. If you're angry, take it out on me, but don't blame your sister. She's not well."

He still had faint scratch marks on his arm from where I had hit him.

I had a well-known reputation in the neighborhood for being a rebellious, unfilial daughter who would lash out at her own father at the drop of a hat.

My dad, on the other hand, was universally known as a good man—gentle, considerate, someone who never even raised his voice.

The looks everyone gave me seemed to say: Go ahead, throw a tantrum. Just like always, grab whatever is handy and throw it at them.

But this time, I just felt exhausted.

I finally understood why my mom, right before she left, told me not to throw tantrums anymore. She said it was too tiring.

She had been tired for over a decade and didn't want me to end up like her.

She wanted me to get out, to leave this place, to leave this family.

"As long as Chloe is okay," I said softly.

My dad’s eyes widened in disbelief.

I hugged my mom’s portrait, turned around, walked into my room, and shut the door.

Over the past few years, to pay for Chloe’s medical treatments, our family’s savings had been drained. We sold the house. We sold the car. Right now, we were living in a rental apartment paid for by my uncle.

Chloe’s illness was almost cured, but my mom had died because we couldn't afford timely treatment for her.

That afternoon, I went out and dyed my glaring red hair back to black. I pinned back my heavy bangs.

I wandered the streets for a while, not knowing where to go, and eventually ended up back at the cemetery.

I wanted my mom to see me. She always liked it best when I looked neat and well-behaved.

When I got back, my dad was cooking, and Chloe was helping him. I didn't know what they were talking about, but both of their faces were glowing with smiles.

Chloe had even posted on social media: [I have the best dad in the whole world.]

The picture attached was of a beautiful new dress.

I casually liked the post. It was deleted shortly after.

Chloe looked at me, her small face turning pale.

My dad rushed over to explain, "She... she hasn't been able to wear dresses because she was sick. She just wanted to commemorate it. Don't be angry."

"It's a nice dress."

They exchanged a confused look, not understanding my reaction.

I sat down at the dining table. "What's for dinner?"

Chloe quickly brought the dishes over, looking surprised. "You dyed your hair back, Serena?"

My dad finally noticed. "What made you decide to dye it black?"

I shrugged. "The school doesn't allow students to have red hair."

Before, I always did the exact opposite of what Chloe did. If she wore white, I wore black. She was sweet and obedient, so I was rebellious and loud.

I wanted to be completely different from the "good kid." I thought that maybe, just maybe, if I acted out, my dad would finally look at me, scold me, or yell at me.

After all, before Chloe arrived, he poured all his energy into raising me and gave me everything he could.

But he never did. He never scolded me for it.

In truth, he probably never even noticed my changes.

His eyes only ever followed Chloe. So, I started bullying her. I dumped ash into her cup; I purposely spilled soup on her pristine white clothes.

And it worked. My dad finally got angry and hit me for the first time.

My mom got into a massive fight with him over it. Chloe was so scared she had a relapse, and my dad took her away from home for over six months.

In the end, my uncle had to intervene as a peacemaker, dragging my mom along to apologize before my dad finally returned.

That night, I got up to get a glass of water and found my dad still awake.

He was sitting on the sofa, sewing a tear in Chloe’s school uniform.

"Serena? Up for water?"

"Yeah."

He held the uniform, looking a bit awkward. "Daddy will mend yours as soon as I finish Chloe’s."

"I already mended mine."

His eyes widened, and he stared at me, unmoving.

In the past, I would have thrown my clothes right at his head and demanded he fix them. If they weren't torn, I would intentionally rip them.

Whatever Chloe had, I demanded to have too.

I thought that by throwing a fit, I was claiming what was mine.

Now, I couldn't care less.

After finishing my water, I went back to my room to study.

I promised my mom I would get into a good college.