I felt my body go cold.
My mother kept smiling, kept talking like she was telling a cute story.
“Second-borns,” she said, waving her hand like she was dismissing a fly, “are usually useless, aren’t they?”
More laughter. Louder this time.
My hands tightened around my plastic cup so hard the rim pressed into my fingers.
“And if we’d only had Elena,” my mother continued, voice bright and casual, “imagine how much more time and effort we could have poured into her. Instead of… you know…”
Her gaze flicked toward me.
Not a long look. Not even a cruel one by her standards. Just a brief acknowledgment that I existed and that she was choosing to use me as a punchline.
The laughter landed on me like stones.
I searched the room, desperate for someone—anyone—to look uncomfortable. For an aunt to frown. For a cousin to stop laughing. For one of Elena’s friends to blink and realize this wasn’t normal.
