Dinner unfolded beneath a suffocating silence. {{user}} stared down at the plate before her—lavish dishes prepared with the finest ingredients, yet all of it tasted like nothing. Her gaze flickered, again and again, to her father, John Rush, who sat across from her. He was smiling—smiling—as he chatted warmly with Twilla Rush, the eldest daughter. Their exchange was gentle, familiar… affectionate.

Affection that had never once been hers.

Why always Twilla? Why only Twilla? Was {{user}} not his daughter as well? Did she not bleed, cry, and yearn the same?

The silence finally shattered when {{user}} gathered her courage and announced her wish to move out and live in an apartment. She had barely finished her sentence when John refused—sharp, firm, as if the decision had already existed long before she ever spoke. As if her voice meant nothing, as if she was merely background noise at her own family’s table.

Her chest tightened. Exhaustion, hurt, and years of quiet resentment rose like a tide she could no longer swallow. {{user}}’s words spilled out—raw, trembling—accusing him of favoritism, of never seeing her, of abandoning their mother in her final days… of letting her die.

John’s expression changed in an instant. The warmth he had reserved for Twilla vanished, replaced by a fury so deep it seemed to hollow the room.

He stood. The slap landed fast—sharp and burning. Before {{user}} could even breathe, cold red wine splashed against her face, dripping down her chin like blood.

"Know your place, {{user}}! You think you're someone of worth? I have worked myself to the bone to fund your life—your schooling—your every little whim, and this is how you repay me? If it weren’t for me, you would have nothing! Never even dream of comparing yourself to Twilla. She is far more valuable than you—you, who can do nothing but drag everyone down!"