Chapter 1
All it took was one comment from my dad: "Chloe's hair looks really pretty."
That night, while I was asleep, my mother took kitchen shears to my waist-length hair. She hacked it off into a jagged buzz cut, leaving my scalp looking like a lawn chewed up by a stray dog.
Then she sold my hair and used the cash to buy my younger brother a pair of limited-edition sneakers.
She snapped a photo of me sobbing next to my brother grinning ear to ear, posting it on Instagram with the caption:
“I can’t stand my oldest daughter anymore. Always trying to dress up like a little tramp. Tell her to get a haircut and she cries like the world is ending. Not like my sweet boy—he’s always a ray of sunshine.”
She expected sympathy and praise. Instead, she got torn to shreds in the comments.
“You butchered your teenage daughter’s hair and expect her to smile? Are you insane?”
Furious, she deleted the post and immediately uploaded a selfie with my brother:
“Sons really are better than daughters. A son knows how to love his mother, unlike an ungrateful viper who takes strangers' sides against her own mom!”
What she didn’t know was that the real traitor wasn't me.
Just last Saturday, her beloved golden boy had been holding another woman’s hand in public, beaming:
“Auntie Candice, Daddy loves you, and I love you too. I wish you were my real mommy.”
Yesterday was our school's talent showcase. All the girls in our class had to wear matching pleated skirts. Everyone else looked radiant and confident; I just shrank into the shadows, shivering as if the fabric were giving me hives.
I wasn’t thinking about how pretty the skirt was, or how I would look on stage.
My only thought was: Thank God Mom isn't here.
Mom despised seeing me look nice.
She forbade me from wearing skirts or shorts. Even in the blistering heat of mid-July, I was forced into thick, dark sweatpants. Sweat pooled on my thighs until they broke out in itchy red heat rashes.
She banned form-fitting clothes, dressing me exclusively in oversized, shapeless hand-me-downs that made me look like a walking tent.
Skincare was out of the question. In the dry chill of winter, the skin on my cheeks cracked open in microscopic lines. Every gust of wind brought tears of pain to my eyes.
Once, I secretly saved three dollars to buy a travel-sized bottle of cheap drugstore lotion. When she found it in my backpack, she shoved her finger into my forehead and shrieked:
“You little slut! Who are you smearing that on for? Already trying to seduce boys, aren't you?”
All because our teenage neighbor had casually mentioned that I smelled nice. Mom had gone completely berserk.
No matter how many times I cried, “I’m not trying to seduce anyone,” she just kept hurling that word at me. Slut. Whore. Tramp.
Eventually, I learned my lesson. I kept a terrified distance from anything that might make me look remotely pretty.
“Chloe, you look gorgeous in that skirt with your hair down,” my best friend, Josie, said backstage, gently touching my long, silky black locks with an envious smile. “Your hair is so thick. Here, take this—it’ll look amazing on you!”
She handed me a satin headband. Deep crimson, smooth as silk under my fingers.
It was the first gift I had ever received in my entire life.
I held it with trembling hands, feeling an overwhelming, terrifying joy.
That night, after everyone fell asleep, I couldn't resist. I crept into the bathroom to try it on.
The house was dead silent. Mom was surely fast asleep.
I pulled my hair into a loose low ponytail, letting the crimson band rest against my dark curls. The deep red brought a soft, healthy glow to my otherwise pale, exhausted face.
Looking at my reflection, a tiny, fragile smile broke across my lips. A warmth bloomed in my chest.
Still smiling, I quietly stepped out of the bathroom.
The moment I looked up, my eyes locked with Mom's.
She was kneeling by the front door, putting away Dad’s shoes after his business trip. Seeing me, the welcoming smile on her face curdled instantly into pure venom.
The blood in my veins turned to ice.