When I tried to protect my 5-year-old daughter from my father, my sister and mother forced me away while my father yelled, “Your trashy little thing needs to learn manners.” Then he began hitting her with a belt until she stopped moving.

And I raised Lily alone.

My parents never outright said Vanessa mattered more—but they didn’t need to. They showed it in a thousand small cuts.

Vanessa’s kids received savings bonds and expensive toys for birthdays. Lily got ten-dollar gift cards and polite smiles. Christmas photos always centered Vanessa’s family, posed perfectly and praised loudly, while Lily and I were placed at the edge of the frame like an afterthought—like our presence was optional.

I told myself it didn’t matter. I tried to make peace with it for years. I told myself Lily had me, and I had her, and that was enough.

But children notice what adults pretend isn’t there.

Lily started asking questions.

Why does Grandma hug Stella longer?
Why does Grandpa play with Mason but not with me?
Why do they laugh louder when my cousins speak?
Why do I feel like I’m always doing something wrong?

I made excuses because I wanted her to have family beyond just me. I wanted her to believe she belonged somewhere bigger than our tiny apartment. I wanted her childhood to be softer than mine.

So I kept bringing her back.

Over and over, I gave them chances.

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