Chapter 2: The Girl Who Hated My Mother
The bedroom door swung open without a knock.
“Well, well,” Samantha said.
“Look what Daddy bought his favorite daughter.””
My twenty-one-year-old stepsister leaned against the doorframe, chewing gum as she examined the gown.
Her blonde hair fell in perfect waves.
Her designer jeans probably cost more than my monthly rent.
And the handbag hanging from her wrist was worth three thousand dollars.
Samantha had never understood the difference between having something beautiful and needing everyone else to know you could afford it.
Since Dad married her mother, Victoria, three years earlier, she had treated our house like a hotel where everyone else existed to accommodate her.
She walked into my room without permission.
She borrowed things without asking.
And whenever anyone objected, she acted as though she had been personally insulted.
I had learned that arguing with Samantha rarely solved anything.
Still, I wasn't going to let her touch the dress.
“Can you please knock before entering?””
She ignored me.
“Wow,” she said, circling the gown.
“You actually plan to wear this tomorrow?””
“Yes.””
“To graduation?””
I stared at her.
“That's generally what graduation dresses are for.””
She gave a short, humorless laugh.
“God, you're exhausting.””
I returned to folding the tissue paper from the box.
“If you're here to insult me, Samantha, I'm busy.””
“Relax. I'm trying to help you avoid embarrassing yourself.””
“By doing what?””
She ran one finger along the pearl neckline.
I stepped forward immediately.
“Don't touch it.””
She withdrew her hand, but the smile on her face widened.
“Mom said Dad spent thousands on this thing. That's ridiculous. You could've bought something decent at a department store.””
“It's not about the price.””
“Of course not. It's about your tragic little backstory.””
My fingers tightened around the tissue paper.
“What does that mean?””
She sighed as if I had forced her to explain something painfully obvious.
“Everything with you is about your mother. Your mother designed this. Your mother wanted that. Your mother would've been so proud.””
She leaned closer.
“Do you ever get tired of using a dead woman to make everyone feel sorry for you?””
The room seemed to lose its air.
For a moment, I couldn't find a single word.
My mother had been dead for nine years, but Samantha had found a way to make that loss feel fresh every time she wanted to hurt me.
I looked directly at her.
“Get out.””
Her eyebrows rose.
“Excuse me?””
“Get out of my room.””
She stared at me for a second, then laughed.
“You really think you can order me around?””
“I'm asking you to leave.””
“No, Emily. You're playing your usual game. You act wounded, Dad comes running, and suddenly Samantha is the villain again.””
I moved between her and the dress.
“My mother is not a game.””
Something changed in her expression.
Samantha had always resented the place my mother still held in Dad's heart.
She hated the photographs he kept in his office.
She hated the little traditions he continued on my mother's birthday.
And she hated that sometimes, when I laughed, Dad would look at me with an expression so tender that it made him seem like he had briefly traveled back to a happier time.
Victoria had never demanded that Dad erase my mother's memory.
At least, not openly.
But Samantha had turned that memory into a competition.
She wanted to be the daughter who received the most attention, the most expensive gifts, and the most unquestioned affection.
And she believed that every kind word Dad said about my mother somehow took something away from her.
“You know what your problem is?”” she asked.
I didn't answer.
“You think because your mother died, you get to own every room in this house emotionally. Nobody can disagree with you. Nobody can tell you no.””
She glanced at the gown again.
“You get to be the poor little orphan forever.””
“I'm not an orphan. Dad is right downstairs.””
“Exactly.””
Her voice sharpened.
“Dad is right downstairs, and he still treats you like you're the only person in this family who matters.””
I stared at her in disbelief.
“That's not true.””
“Really? Who gets the sentimental gifts? Who gets the special graduation dress? Who gets to cry about the past whenever something doesn't go her way?””
“Dad bought you a car last year.””
“Because I needed one.””
“And he paid for your private design course.””
“Because he could afford it.””
I almost laughed at the hypocrisy.
She could accept every expensive thing without a second thought, yet my one sentimental gift was somehow proof that I had been favored.
“This dress was my mother's promise,” I said quietly.
“It's not a competition.””
Samantha's smile vanished.
“Everything is a competition when you're the one losing.””
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Please leave.””
She folded her arms.
“Or what? You'll tell Dad?””
“Yes,” I said.
“If you keep harassing me, I will.””
She tilted her head.
“Go ahead.””
The confidence in her voice should have warned me.
Instead, I mistook it for another empty threat.
I turned away and carefully straightened the hanger.
I wanted her gone.
I wanted to spend the last evening before graduation remembering my mother, not defending her memory against someone who had never even known her.
But Samantha wasn't finished.
She walked toward my desk and picked up the framed photograph of Mom and me at the beach.
I reached for it.
“Put that down.””
She examined the picture.
“Was she always this dramatic?””
I snatched it from her hand.
“Don't you dare talk about her.””
“See? There it is again.””
She spread her hands.
“You can't have one normal conversation without turning it into a memorial service.””
“Because you keep bringing her up!””
My voice rose before I could stop it.
Samantha blinked.
For the first time, I had managed to surprise her.
Then she smiled again.
“Wow. So the perfect Emily finally has a temper.””
I took a breath.
“I'm not doing this with you.””
I turned toward the door.
I was going downstairs to find Dad.
I was going to tell him what had happened and ask him to make sure Samantha stayed away from my room.
But before I could take another step, she moved between me and the doorway.
“Don't you dare run to him.””
“Move.””
“You always do this. You make everyone feel guilty until they give you what you want.””
“I want you out of my room!””
“And I want one day in this house where everything isn't about you!””
We stood facing each other.
Then Samantha's gaze shifted toward the dress.
Her expression became strangely calm.
It frightened me more than her shouting had.
“You really think wearing that thing will make tomorrow special?”” she asked.
I didn't respond.
She took one step toward the gown.
I blocked her path.
“Samantha, I'm serious.””
“So am I.””
She looked at the dress, then back at me.
“Maybe it's time someone reminded you that you don't get to control this entire family just because your mother isn't around to do it anymore.””
I felt a cold shiver move down my spine.
“Get away from it.””
She smiled.
“Make me.””
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then she reached toward the hanger.
I grabbed her wrist.
“Don't touch it!””
She jerked free.
“Don't put your hands on me!””
“Then stop trying to ruin something that matters to me!””
Her face twisted with anger.
And in that instant, I realized this was no longer about a graduation dress.
It was about years of resentment, jealousy, and a rivalry I had never agreed to enter.
Samantha looked at me as if I had stolen something from her.
Something she believed she deserved.
Then she whispered, “You're going to regret treating me like this.””
She turned toward the door.
I thought she was finally leaving.
I thought I had won the argument.
But just before she stepped into the hallway, she looked over her shoulder at the gown.
Her eyes lingered on the pearls.
Then she smiled.
It was a small smile.
A deliberate one.
And I suddenly wished I had followed her downstairs instead of letting her leave my room alone.
Because when I turned back toward the dress a few minutes later, I noticed something I hadn't seen before.
May you like
The bedroom door was still open.
And Samantha's expensive handbag was gone.
