I wasn’t angry. I tilted my head and smiled, an eerie smile I’d practiced thousands of times in the mirror over five years.
Beatrice flinched at my smile, her hand loosening, fear flickering in her eyes. “You… What are you laughing at?”
My mother rushed over, held Beatrice and frowned at me. “Elena! You just got back. What’s with that look! Beatrice isn’t well. Don’t scare her!”
I understood why they adopted her, a “victim” with good grades and a poor family. To outsiders, it was mercy. To themselves, it was self-admiration. She was their proof to the world that they were good and I was wrong.
Beatrice hid behind my mother, her voice trembling. “Mom, don’t blame Elena... She’s just in a bad mood. It’s my fault. I’m fine.”
The more she spoke, the angrier my mother looked. My father frowned, his tone cold. “Five years later, you’re still the same. We feed and clothe you, not for you to cause trouble! Look how sensible Beatrice is!”
To him, I was always the troublemaker. They lived happily and I was just an intruder. It was foolish to still have hopes for this family. I walked toward Beatrice and she stepped back.