My name is Sora Umareta, and I'm 19 years old.

Years ago, I lived in a large mansion with my parents, cousins, uncles, and aunts. My father worked as the bodyguard for the president's wife. Life back then felt simpler. Even though I was an introvert and rarely left the house, I still had a genuine smile on my face. My friends would come over to play, and I'd spend time with my cousins.

I remember my father, who was in his forties, often boasting about his wealth. He'd say that he had achieved everything in life and could die without regrets. Despite his accomplishments, he never did much for me or my older sister, except for forcing us to go to school no matter what. One day, my mom noticed that he had been acting strangely, becoming more distant and detached. While he was in the bath, she decided to check his phone. What she found shocked her—there were indecent messages from younger women.

From that moment, my mother remained silent. She didn't confront him, not right away. But everything changed one afternoon. My father came home early from work, saying he had a surprise for us. I was busy playing on my phone, indifferent to whatever he had planned. When he opened the car door, my mother and sister gasped. There was a baby in the back seat.

"What is that?" my mother asked, disappointment etched on her face.

Before my father could answer, she slapped him—twice. His lip split, a thin line of blood trickling down.

"It's my daughter," he muttered, his voice trembling.

"Your daughter? You cheated on me, and now you bring home the child of your mistress?"

"If I left her with her mother, she would either grow up to be just like her or get killed by her aunt."

My mother said nothing. She turned and walked to her room, locking the door behind her. The rest of us went to the living room in silence. My older sister was the first to speak.

"Father, this is so disrespectful to Mom. You shouldn't have done this."

"Shut up!" he snapped. "What do you know? I told your mother I wanted one more child, but she refused. I warned her I'd have another, one way or another."

"...If you say so," my sister replied softly, defeated.

The next day, my father returned to work, and I went to school as usual. My sister went to university, leaving my mother alone at home with my half-sister. When my sister came home later that afternoon, she told me something that shocked me. She had found our mother feeding and cradling the baby as if she were her own.

I rushed to my mom's room and found her asleep, my half-sister curled in her arms.

A year later, my half-sister was fully accepted as part of the family. My mother treated her as her own, but I, as the middle child, had become invisible. Everyone ignored me. One day, my half-sister wasted all the toilet paper in the bathroom, and my father came after me. Grabbing me by the throat, he hissed, "Where were you? Why did you let her do that?"

I couldn't stop myself from crying. Whenever I feel overwhelmed, I break down in tears, and that moment was no different. Fear and hatred surged through me, and I sobbed uncontrollably. His grip tightened, and for a moment, I thought I might die. If my mother hadn't intervened and told him to stop, I don't know what would've happened.

From that day on, I started to hate my father. I wished he would die.

On July 7th, 2021, the president was assassinated along with one of his sons. The president's wife was severely injured. Thankfully, my father didn't go to work that day, or he likely would have died too—probably not without taking some of the attackers down with him. Or so I thought.

A year later, in January 2022, my mother traveled to the Dominican Republic. My father, on the other hand, disappeared. No one could reach him. For days, we tried calling, but there was no answer. Three days later, while my sister was watching TV, she saw the news flash across the screen. There, among heaps of trash, was a photo of my father's lifeless body.

She screamed and called us all over to see. Everyone started crying, but not me. I stood there, numb, unable to shed a single tear, even though I tried.