Chapter 2

However, I didn't anticipate that my parents' preference for boys would be so severe, to the point where I couldn't bear it any longer.

They named my younger brother Hope Coleman--the hope of the Coleman family, a strong contrast to my role as the scapegoat. Their favoritism was painfully clear.

I was tasked with taking care of my brother, catering to his every need, from changing his diapers to putting him to sleep. I lost count of how many times I had to do these things.

Hope was already a mischievous child, and with the adults spoiling him, it only encouraged his unruly behavior. He would rudely and unreasonably snatch away everything I liked--my new clothes, stationery--and once he got them, he would destroy them. If I dared to refuse, he would throw a tantrum all day, and in the end, my parents would step in to scold me on his behalf.

Hope Coleman was six years younger than me, and while it was natural for me, as an older sister, to accommodate him, it didn't mean he should respect me.

I began to feel inferior in this household, from the moment he coerced me into being his "horse" and everyone praised him. A seemingly innocent boy, with fresh tears still on his face, a mischievous smile on his lips, he would ride on my back, pull my hair, force me to crawl on all fours, and continuously wave a small whip, shouting, "Giddy-up! Giddy-up!" I would never forget that scene, and it was the start of my growing resentment towards Hope Coleman.

Finally, he grew up and started attending elementary school, unveiling his true power. He despised studying and homework, so he began placing his homework on my desk when I was away. He'd knock over the water cup on my desk and then run to our mother, claiming that I had ruined his homework, making it impossible to complete. Every time my mother looked at the waterlogged workbook on my desk and asked what I had done. I would honestly tell her that I hadn't done anything. Hope Coleman would then burst into tears, looking all wronged, and my mother, believing him, would scold me for not admitting to my mistakes. I got angry at her, but I was no match for her, and in the end, I had to apologize to Hope Coleman under pressure. Through gritted teeth, I bowed my head, said I was sorry, and when I looked up, I saw a smug smile on his face. He probably thought he could bully me and avoid doing homework.

At that moment, I was eager to give him a good beating, but I dared not do anything to Hope Coleman under my mother's watchful eye.

As time passed, Hope Coleman probably realized that every time he did something wrong, he wouldn't be criticized but instead, I would take the blame for him. As a result, he became even more audacious, continuously innovating ways to torment me.

One day was my birthday, and I received the lukewarm gift from my father--a stack of notebooks, and the inedible noodles cooked by my mother.

Every time they celebrated Hope Coleman's birthday, they would buy him clothes, cakes, and prepare a delicious meal for him. But for me, it was like giving alms to a beggar. Over the years, I endured this injustice in silence. I pretended to graciously accept my parents' well-intentioned gifts, slurping the noodles reluctantly and forcing myself to finish them.

While I was eating, Hope watched me and suddenly leaned in close, whispering, "Nadia, I've prepared a gift for you too." After saying that, his eyes sparkled with mischief, and he tried to stifle his laughter.

I observed him suspiciously. He had suddenly become so considerate, which was unusual. He must have something mischievous planned and was waiting for me to fall into his trap. Perhaps he had messed up my bed with all kinds of things to scare me! He really thought that such a childish trick would scare me. That evening, when I returned to my room, I realized that I had underestimated Hope Coleman's malicious intentions.

I carefully lifted the blanket, revealing a yellow liquid stain on the bedsheet, emitting a disgusting odor. He had urinated on my bed! I ripped off the bedsheets and threw them on the floor, then angrily stomped on them, venting my frustration at Hope Coleman. I was so angry that I treated the sheets as if they were him, and I wished I could stomp on him a few times.

The next day, before I could confront him, he reported to my mother that I had wet the bed. I loudly denied it, pointing at Hope and scolding him, "You did this and now you're blaming me? Do you think I won't hit you?"

"Shut up, what's wrong with you! You will wash the entire family's clothes for a month as a punishment!" My mother slammed her bowl and chopsticks on the table, her face red with anger.

"Mom! I..." I wanted to continue defending myself, but when I saw her putting a piece of braised pork into Hope Coleman's bowl, I immediately fell silent.

How could she not know what had happened and still favor her son?

If I argued, it would be a waste of my breath. In this household, as my younger brother grew older, he became increasingly unbearable, while my parents continued to dote on him, treating him like a treasure and leaving me in the corner, as if I were a rag.

In this home, such favoritism was evident everywhere.

During every meal, they would place meat dishes in front of my younger brother. One time, I was hungry and reached for a chicken leg in front of him. My mother smacked my hand, and she scolded, "Greedy glutton, let your brother eat first. Do you know that?"

I glanced at my brother, who had finished all the chicken legs on his plate and was asking why I wasn't eating. My mother, doting on him, smiled and said, "Your sister can eat less, you're growing, so eat more."

I heard it and reluctantly took a spoonful of rice, then put down my chopsticks, saying, "I'm full, I need to do my homework!"

"Don't forget to wash the dishes later!" My mother called from behind.

I clenched my clothes in frustration, and the words I had been holding back for a long time burst out, "Why should I wash them all the time, never getting to eat the dishes while others do? It's unfair!"

My mother heard it, picked up a chicken feather duster from the table, and wanted to hit me. My father gestured to stop her, explaining to me, "Girls should be diligent so they won't be despised by their in-laws in the future. We're doing this for your own good. As for the food, your brother is a boy, and boys naturally eat more. Why are you competing with him?"

I nodded, pretending to be obedient and accepting the criticism, but deep down, I clenched my fists. I told myself that I had to endure this. They all believed that daughters were inferior, so I had to prove them wrong. Girls were not less capable than boys.