I was painting by the lake with my son when I ran into my parents for the first time in eight years.

My son, flying a kite, bumped right into my father.

When my father saw Leo's face, the ceramic piece fell from his hand.

This child...he looks just like Skylar did.

I dropped my brush, stepped between them, and turned to leave.

Skylar Wallace!" My mother was in front of me, blocking the path. " Eight years without a word."

"Do you know how many cities we've searched for you in? Your brother got into a car accident looking for you. He still has a limp!"

"Why are you still so selfish and stubborn? You're nothing like Chloe."

I calmly looked them over.

"You've got the wrong person. My name is Rain."

The home they spoke of had died in my heart eight years ago.



"Skylar! Is that any way to look at your own parents?"

Seeing my expressionless face, Father grew even angrier. "We were too soft! Should've let you rot in prison!"

My five-year-old son thrust himself forward, arms spread.

"Don't you dare yell at my mom! You're bad!"

Father's face turned purple with rage, his finger practically poking my face.

"Is this your son?! No wonder you're hiding! Who's the father? Some backwater nobody?"

He raised his hand and slapped me hard.

Seeing me get hit, Leo cried and rushed forward, his tiny fists pounding against Mr. Wallace's leg.

"Bad man! I'll tell Daddy to stab you with his carving knife!"

Ignoring the stinging pain on my face, I quickly scooped Leo back into my arms.

"Leo, let's go home."

My mother ran up, grabbing my sleeve.

"Skylar, stop this nonsense! Your dad is just upset! He was diagnosed with liver cancer last year; the doctors say three years at most... Can't you show him some understanding? Please, come home with us!"

I shook off her hand, my voice as cold as ice.

"I told you, my name is Rain. If you harass me again, I'm calling the cops."

With that, I carried Leo and walked towards my husband's studio.

Back in the studio, I collapsed onto the sofa, trembling all over.

Leo, still sobbing, pulled my husband, Alex, out.

"Daddy! He hit Mommy! Look!"

Alex, still holding a sculpting tool covered in clay, rushed to me in a few strides.

He cupped my face, his fingertips gently tracing the red, swollen area.

"Who did this? Tell me."

I gripped his wrist, shaking my head. "I ran into two people I wish I hadn't."

Alex didn't press further, just pulled me into his embrace, stroking my back gently.

"Don't be afraid. I'm here. No one will hurt you again."

Leo stood on his tiptoes, his little hands stained with paint touching my cheek, mimicking how I'd comfort him.

"Mommy, no boo-boos. I will kiss it better."

Alex also lowered his head, his forehead resting against mine.

"Rain, honey, I'm here."

My vision suddenly blurred.

A long time ago, I was cherished like this too.

I was afraid of thunderstorms, so Mom and Dad covered my room ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stars.

Dad said each star was an eye watching over me.

I was afraid to sleep alone, so they set up a small cot by my bed and took turns sleeping next to me.

"Skylar, honey, Mommy and Daddy will always be with you."

All of that crumbled when I was six, after my father brought home the orphaned daughter of his army buddy.




"Skylar, this is Chloe. From now on, she's your sister."

I was so happy. I brought out all my most treasured picture books for her, and gave her the limited-edition music box Mom had brought back from Paris.

Finally, I carefully took out the ceramic vase from the display cabinet.

"Chloe, look, this is the first piece Mom and I ever made together. It's one of a kind!"

Chloe took the vase, stared at it for three seconds, then suddenly let go... The porcelain vase crashed to the floor, shards flying everywhere.

"What are you doing?!" I shrieked, pushing her away.

Chloe fell back among the shards, her palm pressing onto a piece, and blood instantly welled up.

Her cries drew my parents. Father rushed in and scooped her up, while Mother hurried to find the first-aid kit.

"Skylar pushed me... She said a stray like me doesn't deserve to touch her things..." Chloe sobbed, gasping for breath.

My father's eyes were bloodshot. He held her tight. "Chloe, don't cry. From now on, I'm your dad."

He turned and roared at me, "Skylar! Apologize to Chloe right now!"

I pointed at the scattered shards, tears streaming down my face. "She broke my vase first!"

"Is a stupid vase more important than your sister's hand? How could you be so cruel?!" my father roared.

"Mom and I worked on that for three whole days...'" I choked, unable to finish.

"Skylar, we've spoiled you too much!" Mother sighed, shaking her head. "No dinner for you tonight. Go to your room and think about what you've done."

That night, they took Chloe to the restaurant I'd always wanted to go to. When they returned, they brought me a slice of Black Forest cake.

Mother said Chloe had lost her parents, so I needed to be understanding and let her have her way more often.

I ate the cake, nodding in naive agreement.

But that 'giving in' ended up costing me my entire life.

Whenever Chloe wanted something, Mother would say, "Skylar, let Chloe have it."

My art supplies, my study room, even my dreams.

When I was twelve, Chloe stole my pottery piece, the one Id worked on for a year. She submitted it to the National Youth Art Competition. She took home the Grand Prize.

I stopped Mother in the hallway. "Why?"

"Haven't you won enough awards? Just let Chloe have this one."

"That was a year's worth of work for me!" I nearly screamed.

"Enough!" Father emerged from his study, his face dark.

"It's just one pottery piece! If it took you a year, it means you have no talent. Don't touch clay again!"

That night, I had an acute gastritis attack, curled up on the floor in pain.

They were out with Chloe, attending the awards gala, being interviewed by the media.

The next day, Grandma Rose, who had rushed from a neighboring town, found me and took me to the hospital.

The doctor said that if we'd been half an hour later, a stomach perforation would have been serious.

Grandma Rose flew into a rage on the spot. Ignoring my parents' objections, she insisted on taking me away.

They tried to pick me up later, but every time they were about to leave, Chloe would either have an asthma attack or threaten to hurt herself.

Gradually, they stopped coming to see me, and I stopped asking.

My time with Grandma Rose was the most peaceful period of my life.

She didn't call me Skylar; she called me Rain.

She said I was her proudest grandchild, the smartest kid in the world.