Family Ends Here, For Eternity

 I was petty since my mother favored my sister over me and I felt wronged. But I did not say it—I silently jotted it down in my notebook.

My mother was my primary subject of observation.

What she gave my sister versus what she gave me; what she gave my aunt versus what she gave my other aunt.

Everything I saw or heard, I recorded.

I realized my mother prioritized people.

With my sister, she seemed to pour all her love into her first. Only when there was overflow did she give me what was left.

The more she did this, the more I compared myself to my sister. 

Sometimes, I even felt like I was becoming twisted.

But as long as I was away from my mother, I was completely normal. My mother was the abnormal one.

She had a clear hierarchy of who she prioritized. She has a scale in her mind for who to treat better.

As a result, my aunt’s expression grew increasingly grim. 

She finally slammed my notebook shut, stood up abruptly, her chest heaving violently—clearly furious beyond measure.

"Haven't I been good enough to you? Whenever you had trouble, I rushed over in the middle of the night to help. I know you're closer to her, but the difference in how you treat us is too obvious."

"Even with your own children, you treat them so differently. They're your own blood relatives!"

People feared comparisons, that was why my aunt was visibly upset.

She was truly heartbroken and never imagined that her wholehearted devotion would be met with such blatant favoritism.

I interjected calmly, "Auntie, you always say people are naturally biased. Why bother arguing with mom over it?"

My sister pulled me aside, urging me to stop talking. "Sylvia, what's gotten into you? Can't you just speak nicely?"

Why should I? If I was unhappy, no one else should be either.

I slammed the notebook onto her lap and argued, "Those who profit from others shouldn't lecture me. You all share the blame for turning me into this!"

My aunt staggered, unable to utter another word of reproach.

After all, the knife only cut the deepest when it pierced your own flesh.

Ignoring my mother's calls, my aunt walked away resolutely, while my sister silently flipped through the notebook.

I continued speaking, "Melody, don't tell me you haven't noticed mom favors you more. We're all adults here—don't play dumb when you're the one benefiting. It's disgusting!"

My sister said nothing. But sometimes silence was consent.

I turned to my father in the end and inquired, "Dad, have you finally gotten over your resentment about Grandpa and Grandma favoring Uncle?"

My father smoked even more. If he had truly let it go, he wouldn't avoid my uncle every year when we come to my grandparents' graveyard.

He was still complaining about my grandparents' unfairness decades later—he had no right to lecture me.

My mother was so furious she came over to slap me. "Shut up!"

I knelt before my mother immediately, making her freeze with her hand still raised.