The Novel-LZX-4

My childhood had "three rules." No dresses. No long hair. And never—ever—take anything that belonged to Jasmine Hayes. Mom made those rules herself. She needed to protect Jasmine's place as the family's one and only princess. From the moment I could understand words, I was treated like Jasmine's servant. If she liked pink, I couldn't like pink. If she wanted to bring her stuffed animals on vacation, there was no seat left for me in the car. If her grades were bad, I wasn't allowed to be first in class. And still—even after all that—I was thrown away. Because Mom said, "Your birth was a mistake." … Mom hadn't had an easy childhood. As the oldest, she'd been forced to care for her younger siblings while growing up, and she carried deep wounds from her own mother's house. After marrying Dad, she swore they'd only ever have one child. But after Jasmine was born, they got pregnant again—by accident. With me. So I wasn't born into love. The day I came into the world, Mom didn't hold me. She wouldn't even look at me properly. I cried a lot as a baby. And she'd glare at me and say, "She's already learned to cry on purpose—to steal attention. What kind of person will she grow up to be?" The nanny who looked after me thought it was ridiculous and blurted out, "Kids cry—that's just what they do. How's that 'on purpose'?" Already in a fragile state, Mom completely unraveled at the nanny's comment. She grabbed fistfuls of her hair, shrieking hysterically—sending both the nanny and Dad stumbling back in shock. "What am I supposed to do?!" she shrieked, tears streaming down her face. "People already like her more! What about my Jasmine? My Jasmine is the only princess in this house! You little bitch—why are you trying to steal her love?!" Dad wrapped his arms around her, murmuring soft words until she collapsed against his chest, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe. Through gasps and tears, she clutched his shirt and begged, "Harrison Hayes… please. Send her away. Just… send her away." He didn't have a choice. He rented a tiny apartment across town and moved me out with my nanny, Doris Foster. I never tasted Mom's milk—not once. That was saved for Jasmine. Even though Jasmine was already two—old enough to wean—Mom kept nursing her, saying she "just couldn't bear to take it away." So Doris fed me formula. I couldn't stand the taste of formula—every feeding ended in violent vomiting. Doris panicked and dialed Mom, pleading with her to come check on me. Mom's reply was cold. "I'm not a doctor. What good would me looking at her do? Just take her to the hospital." A pause. Then, softer—but crueler. "I've got plans this afternoon. Jasmine and I are going to the amusement park. Don't bother me." Mom ended the call without a word. Doris pulled me into her arms and wept—great, shaking sobs that soaked my tiny shoulder. Until I turned six, I lived with Doris. Dad visited sometimes. But Mom? Never once. I was just a kid, full of questions. Again and again, I asked Doris, "Why don't I ever see Mom?" Whenever I brought it up, Doris would steer the conversation elsewhere—never giving me a real answer. Eventually, I just stopped asking. I didn't mind most days—but sometimes, watching other children walk hand in hand with their mom and dad, I'd feel that quiet ache of loss. Chapter 2 Three Rules I was brought back home when I turned six. Not because they'd suddenly grown to love me—but because Doris, the nanny who raised me, had retired. That was also the first time I ever saw Jasmine. She was wearing a pink princess dress, surrounded by scattered dolls in the living room. Mom sat beside her, patiently coaxing spoonfuls of food into her mouth with soft murmurs and gentle smiles. Dad led me through the front door. The moment Jasmine saw me, her expression went cold. Her brows pinched together like she'd just spotted something dirty—something that didn't belong. "Jasmine," Dad said gently, "this is your little sister, Annie Hayes." I stood frozen, barely whispering, "Sister…" Mom's frown deepened instantly. Jasmine stared at me for a long moment. Then her lip trembled, and she burst into tears. "Mom! You said I was the only princess in this house! Why do I have a sister now? And why is she wearing my favorite pink dress?! That's my color! Only I'm allowed to wear it!" "Jasmine, sweetie, don't cry! Don't cry, baby!" Mom's voice melted into honey the second her daughter sobbed. She pulled Jasmine into her arms, wiping away tears with feather-light touches—so tender it hurt to watch. It was the same woman who'd looked at me seconds ago like I was trash on her shoe. While cradling Jasmine, Mom snapped her head toward me. Her eyes—sharp as ice-coated blades—pierced right through me. "Who told you you could wear pink?" Her voice cracked like a whip. "Don't you know that's Jasmine's color?" I flinched, rooted to the spot, too scared to move or speak. Dad cleared his throat, voice strained and dry. "Claire Hayes… she just got here. It's just a dress…" But Mom wasn't listening. In one furious motion, she lunged forward and grabbed the fabric of my dress. With a harsh rip, she tore it clean down the front. The force yanked me off balance, and I crashed onto the hardwood floor. Pain shot up my arm. I screamed—not just from the fall, but from the shock, the shame, the crushing weight of betrayal. I cried until my throat burned, sobbing like my heart was splitting open. That dress… Doris had helped me put it on that morning. She'd smiled, smoothing the fabric with pride. "Annie, you look so pretty in this. Your mom's gonna be so happy to see you." But Mom wasn't happy. She was furious—and she'd shredded that hope along with the dress. She loomed over me, voice low and final. "You listen well. In this house, Jasmine is the only princess. Always. Starting today—you will never wear dresses. You will never grow your hair long. And you will never, ever take anything that belongs to Jasmine. Do you understand?!" Those "Three Rules" branded themselves into my six-year-old soul like red-hot iron. Above us, the living room light cast a harsh, sterile glare over Mom's face—cold, unyielding, absolute. Cradling Jasmine like a sacred relic, she stood like a goddess guarding her temple, shutting me out forever. Dad opened his mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to comfort me. But in the end, he just let out a heavy, exhausted sigh and turned away. From that day on, the "Three Rules" became law. My closet filled only with dull pants, oversized T-shirts, and shapeless athletic wear—all in gray, navy, black. No color. No joy. Just a permanent shadow I wore every day. I never owned a hair clip. My hair stayed cropped short, bristly like a hedgehog's back. The boys called me "tomboy." The girls wouldn't even look at me. Chapter 3 I Want Her Love Even though I knew Mom didn't love me, wanting her love was just… part of being a kid. So from as early as I could remember, I learned to be quiet, obedient—good. Because only then would she sometimes give me the tiniest flicker of a smile. But even being good could turn into a reason for her to hate me. Like that time at a dinner with my dad's friend, Owen Smith. Jasmine sat beside Mom, rattling off a long list of dishes without hesitation. She chatted with the adults like she owned the table, all bright eyes and confident giggles. Everyone cooed over how "poised" and "charming" she was. When the menu finally reached me, I didn't reach for it. I just shook my head softly. "I'm okay. I don't need anything." Because I knew—I didn't have the right to order. Order too much? I'd be "wasteful." Pick something expensive? I'd be "greedy." Choose wrong? I'd "upset Mom." Owen leaned over kindly. "Come on, Annie! Pick something you like. Don't be shy." Mom glanced at me—just once—then said flatly, voice dripping with disdain. "Don't bother. She spends all day with her head down, barely speaks a word. Honestly, just looking at her gives me a headache." Her words didn't just sting—they pierced. Like a needle driven straight into my chest. Owen flushed, trying to smooth things over. "Ah, Annie's just shy! She's not ordering because she doesn't want to waste food—see how thoughtful she is?" That did it. Mom's face twisted. "Thoughtful?" she snapped, eyes blazing. "So you're saying Jasmine's not thoughtful? That she's wasteful? Is that what you mean?" Owen froze, mouth opening and closing like a fish. He stammered something unintelligible, hands raised in surrender. Then Mom whirled on me. "And you—what are you playing at? Huh? Acting all sweet and quiet in front of Owen? Trying to make yourself look like the 'good' kid so everyone thinks Jasmine's spoiled? Trying to make us look like bad parents?" Every single word hit like a frozen whip—right where I wasn't ready to be hurt. And just like that, I was drowning in this huge, stupid wave of hurt and how wrong it all was. I hadn't done anything. I just… didn't want to cause trouble! "You're six years old," Mom hissed, voice shrill now, finger jabbing toward my face, "and already so calculating? So full of tricks?" My cheeks burned. My ears roared like ocean waves. Everything after that blurred—the rest of her yelling, the clinking glasses, the hushed whispers. All I felt were the stares: shocked, pitying, amused, indifferent… each one a thorn digging into my skin until I couldn't breathe. And in that moment, a single, broken question echoed in my mind— Why was being good… still wrong?