They say children who are separated from their parents early may struggle to form close relationships. Maybe that’s why I grew up distant, unable to be affectionate.
My parents found me cold and detached, so when they had a second child, they raised her by the book, doted on her personally, and nurtured a sweet, clingy little girl.
When I was six, Mom was too busy feeding Fiona to pour herself a glass of water. She told me to do it.
I was short and had to climb onto a stool to reach the kettle. I slipped. Boiling water spilled over my face, leaving hideous scars.
They learned their lesson.
From then on, Fiona never had to lift a finger. She grew up pampered, her hands untouched by work, her nails unchipped, her face radiant. My parents flaunted her beauty to everyone they met.
When people asked about me, their eldest daughter, they hesitated, as if remembering an unpleasant stain on their lives.
“She’s got scars,” they would joke with a laugh. “Wouldn’t want to scare anyone by mentioning her.”
