The forgotten daughter

At the birthday banquet, I made a mistake—I wore Amelia’s old dress

Eight-year-old Ivan grabbed a jug of freshly brewed coffee and hurled it at me in front of the maids.

He watched as I flinched from the burn, his cold eyes filled with hatred, just like his father’s.

“How dare you wear my mom’s clothes?” he sneered. “You’ll never replace her! You killed her with your wicked heart!”

The scalding coffee didn’t just burn my skin. It seared through to my heart.

I looked at the child I had raised for eight years.

I felt no anger. No sadness. Just a quiet sigh.