The crack of impact was satisfying, but Betty’s scream? Even better. She stumbled back, pale as a ghost, scrambling to get away.
My mom rushed in. “Daphne! Are you insane? How dare you hit your sister!”
And, of course, Betty switched into full victim mode, clutching Mom like a shield, her face all wide-eyed terror.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she whimpered, “Mom, I’m so scared. Daphne wants to kill me!”
My mom threw herself in front of Betty like a mother hen guarding her precious chick, her voice sharp and cutting. “You’ve always bullied your sister. I let it slide when it was just little fights, but this? This is too much!”
Seriously? She was my mom, yet she always took Betty’s side—her foster daughter, not even related to us by blood.
There was no pain worse than this.
Tears blurred my vision as I choked out, “She broke Dad’s urn! That was Dad—my dad! Why? Why would she do that?”
I’d bent over backward trying to endure, to compromise, to keep the peace. And for what? So Betty could destroy the one thing Dad left me?
Why didn’t my mom love me?
