You thought I hated Anastasia earlier, didn't you, Inspector?
I think…you're not completely wrong.
Lately, she's been unbearable. Everything in her world revolves around Prince. She worships him, chases after him like someone who's lost her last brain cell along with her dignity. Maybe that's what people call being lovesick. If that's the case, then love is one terrifying disease.
I seriously don't recognize her anymore.
My sister used to prefer quiet corners and thick books. Now she's a walking sigh, a dramatic background character in her own life. They say love changes people. That it can make you forget who you are.
Tell me, Inspector.
Can love really turn a smart girl like Anastasia into an idiot?
I wouldn't know. I've never fallen in love. I don't hang around boys, and let's be honest, I doubt any of them would line up for someone with my temper and my… less-than-delicate vibe.
Hey. Don't give me that pity face.
I'm not upset about my empty love life. It's not tragic. It's peaceful. At least I still have Mama, who loves me sincerely. Unlike Prince, who ran off the second he swallowed Ella's lies without chewing.
And I refuse to become someone blinded by love like Anastasia.
Do you know what she did, Inspector?
She didn't even take care of Mama when Mama was sick.
All she cared about was Prince. That so-called cool guy with zero backbone. Every day after school, she'd rush to her room, cry over him, write love letters, apology letters, try calling him again and again, only to be ignored. Meanwhile, Mama lay pale and weak in bed.
Only me.
In that house, I'm the only one who cares about Mama. I'm the one who stays by her side. I change her compress, make sure she takes her medicine. And the funny part? Anastasia is supposed to be Mama's favorite. But she never once visited her. Never made her tea. Never massaged her feet.
Just me.
And Ella? You think she would care about Mama's condition? You think seeing Mama lying there would magically melt her heart and turn her into some sweet angel?
That's hilarious.
Ella wouldn't care. That selfish girl just keeps herself locked away, digging through dusty relics from her dead mother like some tragic museum curator. Honestly, I prefer her staying in that corner of hers.
From the beginning, I never expected anything from her. I didn't expect sympathy. I didn't expect help. I can handle Mama myself. I manage my time just fine. House chores? Sweeping, cooking? Easy.
Don't misunderstand me, Inspector. I'm not complaining.
I actually like doing all of it for Mama.
"Drizella, thank you." With her pale lips, Mama smiled at me. "You're such a reliable child."
There's nothing in this world that makes me happier than Mama's praise.
Outside, the sky burned orange like autumn leaves pressed against the horizon. The soft whir of the fan filled the quiet room. I set the half-finished bowl of porridge on the bedside table, next to her water and the medicine she hadn't taken yet.
Mama's trembling hand gripped my arm as she tried to sit up. "I'll cook dinner."
"No, Ma. I'll do it." I shook my head. "You're still sick. You need to rest."
"It's just a small fever." She insisted. "I'm fine."
"But, Ma…"
Without listening, she stood anyway. Her steps were small and unsteady. Beneath her favorite pink cardigan, she looked so fragile I felt like the air itself might break her.
"I'll make pumpkin soup for Ella," she said softly. "She'll be happy."
I lowered my head.
Papa once told me pumpkin soup is Ella's favorite. But what's the point? Even if Mama makes it, Ella won't appreciate it. She never does.
Then I heard it.
A heavy sound. Something hitting the floor. The ground trembled slightly.
When I looked up, Mama was already collapsed.
"I told you, you're still sick." I wrapped my arms around her and helped her back to bed. Her breath was heavy against my ear. "I'll cook dinner. I'll make your favorite."
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"You can always rely on me, Ma." I gave her my best smile.
And that's when my eyes drifted to the paper bag beside her dressing table.
Inside it were the dress and the glass slippers meant for Ella.
Quietly, selfishly, I wanted them.
"Can I try that dress… just once?" I pointed at it with my chin, glancing at Mama. "Ella already said she doesn't want to wear it, right?"
In my heart, I was begging for a yes.
Mama only gave a faint shake of her head. "It's Ella's," she said gently. "I already bought you your own dress."
"But…" I wanted to say that Ella's dress looked prettier than mine. The glass slippers shimmered like captured starlight.
Mama didn't budge.
"I chose that one especially for Ella."
Ella.
Always Ella.
Even after she made Mama sick. Even after she made Mama cry. Even after she stressed Mama out, made her work too hard just to please that ungrateful idiot.
What am I supposed to do, Inspector?
I'm the reliable one.
So tell me… what can I do to make Mama stop thinking about Ella?
***