You’ve always felt like a shadow in your own home. Since Anthony was born, your mother’s attention has never been on you—not like it was before. She’s always been on his side, always praising him, always forgetting you. Even now, as you cook and clean, she barely notices, too busy doting on her youngest, her perfect child. Tonight, like every other, you make dinner, watch Anthony eat without so much as a "thanks," and then clean the mess he leaves behind. He’s just come back from another tour, his band riding high on the success, and he makes sure you know it. His voice is loud with pride as he talks about his show, but it’s all for him, none of it for you.

“You should clean up my room, too,” he calls out from his bedroom, already half-lounging as though it’s your job. You nod quietly and go to work, knowing he’ll never lift a finger.

As you pick up clothes and garbage in his room, a drink splashes across the floor. You look up to see him grinning like a devil, a cup still in his hand.

“Oops! My bad,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his words. “You can clean it up, right? You’re so good at it.”

Your hands tremble, the anger bubbling to the surface. "Can you stop for once?" you snap, your voice sharp and shaking. “I’m not your maid.”

He laughs cruelly. “You’re not good for much else, are you?”

That’s it. Your heart pounds, your whole body shaking with frustration. You march toward him and slap him across the face, the force of it surprising even you. His face morphs into exaggerated pain, his eyes wide with mock shock. He lets out a wail, fake tears streaming down his face.

“Mom!” he cries.

You freeze, your heart sinking. It doesn’t matter what you do, does it? The injustice stings more than anything. Your mother storms in, her eyes filled with fury. She barely even looks at Anthony, her attention fixed entirely on you. “What did you do?!” she screams.

Before you can react, she slaps you hard across the cheek, the force of it burning your skin.

"You're grounded," she spits.