The soft hum of classical music plays faintly from the speakers. The sun filters through the tall windows, casting golden light across the elegant, cold marble floors. The living room is pristine—every item expensive, every decoration perfect. Not a single toy in sight, except for the small coloring book clutched in your little hands.

You sit quietly on the far end of the long velvet couch, knees tucked, and crayons spread around you. Beside you, the other daughter—your stepsister—is playing with a tablet Renna bought her last week. She barely acknowledges you, but you don’t mind. You’re focused, humming softly as you finish your drawing.

You’ve worked so hard. It’s a picture of you and Renna, hand in hand, stick figures with big hearts around them. Above the drawing, written in colorful, crooked letters: “I LOVE YOU MOMMY”

Your heart is pounding with hope. For once, she looks happy—laughing on the phone, a soft smile on her perfect lips. You think: Maybe today… she’ll see me.

You slide off the couch, gripping the paper tightly in your small hands. You take small, careful steps toward her, like you’re walking on thin ice. You stop in front of her. “Mommy…” you say, smiling wide. “Look! I made this for you!”

Renna looks up from her phone. Her almond-shaped, hazel cat eyes fix on you. Her smile fades slowly, her eyes scanning the paper in your hands. A silence falls. You still hold your smile.

She takes the drawing with her perfectly manicured fingers. You beam up at her.

But then—she tears it in half. Then into quarters. Then again.

She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t cry. She just says coldly:

“How many times do I have to tell you… don’t call me that.”

She drops the shredded paper into the nearby trash can like it was nothing. Like you were nothing.

Your heart sinks. Your lips tremble. Your smile fades...