Ten years earlier, I had stood in my graduation gown, holding my diploma like it was proof I mattered.
I was not Sarah. I knew that. Sarah was bright, polished, camera-ready, the kind of daughter my parents loved displaying beside crystal centerpieces and wealthy guests.
I was quieter. Softer. Awkward in photos. Too serious, according to my mother. Too plain, according to my father’s eyes.
That night, while everyone praised Sarah’s beauty and charm, I passed my father’s office and heard my name.
The door was half-open.
He was laughing with a business associate.
“Sarah is the one who helps the family image,” he said. “The other one? She’s an ugly graduate. Smart, maybe. But useless for the brand.”
The words did not strike me like thunder.
They entered quietly, like poison.