I didn't know what my stepfather Adams and my mother Wendy Irvin had discussed, but after Oliva was born, they insisted on giving her a name that sounded similar to mine.
All I knew was that once she was born, my mother stopped loving me. She doted on Oliva day and night, her eyes filled with affection.
When she was born, she was dark and wrinkled; even the head nurse frowned, seeing no resemblance to a little girl.
Somehow, as the years went by, she blossomed into a stunning beauty.
Meanwhile, I, who had always been praised for my looks as a child, started gaining weight. Dark spots appeared on my face, my skin worsened, and my figure began to change.
I wanted my mother to take me to a dermatologist, but she gave me a disapproving look.
"Girls change a lot as they grow up. It's only natural that you're looking worse," she said.
Then scooped Oliva into her arms and showered her with kisses.
"Oliva is so beautiful; she's going to be a real knockout when she grows up."
Hearing this, I could only lower my head in disappointment, letting tears roll down my cheeks.
In high school, I, who had always ranked in the top ten of my class, hit a wall during one midterm exam.