Chapter 3

Chapter 3

A few days later, under the family's round-the-clock pampering, Peyton was discharged from the hospital.

My father hurried back and forth carrying her bags, my mother pulled the car right up to the front entrance so Peyton wouldn't have to walk an extra step, and Brandon carried her in his arms so her shoes wouldn't even touch the ground.

On the drive home, my father grumbled angrily, "Natalie is an absolute piece of garbage. She didn't visit her sister once during her entire hospital stay, let alone apologize! Just wait until I get home―I'm going to teach her a lesson she'll never forget!"

My mother threw him a cold glance. "I told you years ago that keeping her in our house was a mistake. She was always going to bring disaster upon us."

Hearing the phrase "teach her a lesson" made my spectral heart clench.

A flood of painful memories rushed into my mind.

Ever since we were little, my father favored Peyton and demanded that I yield to her in every single thing.

It all started on the day Peyton was born. I had accidentally spilled a pot of hot water, which caused my father to slip and get burned, sending my mother into premature labor.

Peyton had to stay in the neonatal incubator for weeks, breaking the entire family's hearts.

Back then, my mother broke my nasal bone with a single brutal slap, blood streaming down my face as she screamed, "You little jinx! Your sister was barely born, and you almost killed her!"

My father had lain weakly on his hospital bed, his eyes filled with nothing but cold disappointment.

When I was in elementary school, my mother beat me so severely that I couldn't get out of bed for three days―all because Peyton and I fought over a dress.

It was my favorite dress in the world.

Even though it was just a cheap clearance item my mother had bought on a whim while shopping for Peyton's expensive gifts, I had cherished it like treasure.

Peyton owned closets full of designer clothes she couldn't even finish wearing, yet she intentionally tried to snatch that one dress from my hands.

During our struggle, Peyton suddenly let out a piercing shriek and burst into tears.

My father had immediately pulled Peyton into his arms, sobbing as he roared at me, "Natalie! Your sister has suffered so much because of you! What more do you want from her?"

"It wasn't me..."

Before I could explain, Peyton squeezed out a few crocodile tears and whimpered, "Daddy, please don't be mad. It's my fault. I shouldn't have caused trouble and fought with Natalie over the dress."

My mother, who had just returned home and witnessed the scene, grabbed me by the collar and dragged me across the floor.

"A cold-blooded brat like you should have been abandoned at birth! Keeping you here is a curse!"

I wept and begged my mother to stop, but the harder I cried, the more she believed I was faking it, striking me with even greater fury.

My father and brother merely stood at a distance, watching the beating with absolute apathy.

To them, I was an enemy who deserved to be beaten to death.

From that day on, whenever Peyton cried, I was met with severe scoldings and physical violence.

Over time, I stopped competing with her for affection, stopped defending myself, and kept my distance from everyone.

And now, their cruelty had finally ended with them abandoning me on a cold metal operating table.