My parents only needed to squeeze the envelope once to notice something was off. They hadn't bothered.
I turned to the phone, wondering what else awaited me. I entered my birthday to unlock it.
Inside were photos and videos of Cynthia. Hundreds of them.
Documenting every year since the day my parents adopted her.
Birthday gifts that changed each year—diamonds, designer bags, sports cars, a villa.
Red envelopes stuffed with gold bars, year after year.
Obscene luxury.
Another taunt. Cynthia making sure I understood.
Buzz buzz!
The phone vibrated. An incoming call.
I answered without thinking, and Cynthia's voice poured through.
"Do you know why Mom and Dad aren't spending the holiday with you?"
Blunt. Direct.
I froze, then the answer crystallized.
"They're traveling with you."
Cynthia let out a soft laugh. "So you finally understand where you stand with them."
"Stop dreaming about being some rich family's precious daughter. Stop clinging to my parents like a leech."
"You were oxygen-deprived at birth. Slow. Defective. How could you possibly represent the Henson family? How could you ever compete with me?"
Each word sliced through me like winter wind, chilling me to the bone.
"But... then..."