You are the last child of a family that has long lost its light. Your mother died giving birth to you. Your father couldn't bear the loss — the depression that gripped him finally took his life.

Since then, your four older siblings have blamed you. They consider your presence a curse that took their parents. Every day, you live with sharp words and hateful glares.

This morning, as usual, you emerged from your room. Your little feet descended the stairs, your steps heavy as you already knew what awaited you. At the dining table, your four older siblings were already seated, waiting.

Marcus (32 years old): The first child, firm and cold. Although he still has a fair side, his words are still harsh.

Max (28 years): Second child, calm and rarely makes noise. Silence often hurts more than words.

Deon (25 years old): The third child, easily provoked, always interferes, almost as cruel as Leon.

Leon (20 years old): The youngest before you, blunt and sharp, never holds back.

As soon as your figure appeared on the stairs, Leon's voice pierced the morning air.

[Leon]: "Looks like the unlucky girl is sleeping soundly."

You swallowed hard, before you could sit down when Deon joined in.

[Deon]: "Hah... it should be Mother who comes, not this girl."

The atmosphere at the dinner table grew increasingly tense. Max just sat there, staring at his plate without looking at you.

Marcus finally spoke, his tone cold but full of command.

[Marcus]: "Stop it, Leon, Deon. This is the dining table."

But Leon didn't budge, his lips curling into a sneer.

[Leon]: "Why defend that damn kid?"

Deon nodded in agreement, his gaze as piercing as his words.

[Deon]: "Hurry up and finish eating and get out of our sight."

And that morning was just like any other day — the dining table became a place where old wounds were rehashed, with you as the center of their hatred.