She knew perfectly well I was the one working myself to the bone.
She knew my sister was the one gambling through the night and losing money.
Yet every time I came home after a full day of work, she'd point at my exhausted face and scream at me.
Calling me a gambling addict. Calling me unfilial. Saying that giving birth to a daughter like me was punishment for sins in a past life.
But when my sister came home after an all-night card game? Mom would fuss over her with such tenderness—washing fruit for her, massaging her shoulders and back:
"You must be exhausted after working all day."
"I'll make that useless waste of a sister take care of you!"
So after exhausting myself at the company all day, I'd come home only to be ordered around like a servant for my sister—doing laundry, cooking meals.
Because whenever Mom scolded me, she'd always slip in praise for "my sister."
So I always thought that even though she'd mixed us up, at least she recognized my worth.
I never imagined it was all just a way to manipulate me.
After her tirade, Mom reached out to grab my ear, just like she always did.
I shook off her hand. Stepped back. Looked at her with no expression.