The Invisible Daughter Chapter 1

A few years ago, my dad got wasted at a bar and let some "friends" talk him into buying a pre-construction condo. Later, once the building was finished, he took my younger brother, my grandma, and me to go see it.

While we were walking through the place, my grandma—the woman who actually raised me—asked my dad who this condo was for. My dad, still in a generous mood from his lingering buzz, answered flatly, “It’s for her. It’s for the middle child.”

Grandma smiled, finally satisfied.

On the drive back, my brother was behind the wheel, and I was in the passenger seat. Suddenly, he spoke up.

“Sis, don’t take what Dad said back there too seriously. He only bought that place because he was drunk and people were egging him on. He regretted it the next morning. A couple of days ago, he was asking me if he should flip it or try to rent it out. I told him to just sell it. It’ll cost fifteen grand just to furnish and fix it up, and renters will just trash the place. Right, Sis?”

My heart went cold. I didn't say a word.

My brother was born in '94. When he graduated college, my parents bought him a house and a car in the city. When he got married, they even bought a new car for his wife.

Then there’s me, born in '92. I have no house, no car. Even the money for my Master’s degree abroad was earned by my own blood and sweat, working two jobs in a foreign country where I didn't know a soul.

The hardest times were when tuition was due. I had to open half a dozen credit cards, maxing one out to pay the other in a desperate cycle just to stay in school.

And here was my brother, who already owned everything, trying to snatch away the only thing our father had ever offered me—the first thing I would have ever received from them.

But my brother was right. That condo never made it into my hands.

Even now, my grandma still says to me, “Don’t be so hard on yourself out there. Your dad already bought you that place, so stop living so frugally.”

Hearing her, I just think to myself: That place never belonged to me.

Technically, nothing ever belonged to me. But I never corrected my dad’s lie in front of my grandma. I didn't want to break her heart.

Most people assume my parents favor boys over girls. But it’s not that. I have an older sister, five years my senior. Just like my brother, she was always the golden child.

It was only me. I was the one living on the edges of the family photo.

When I first wanted to go abroad for grad school, I asked my parents for support. My dad said nothing.

My mom said, “Two years abroad? That’s going to cost a fortune. Just stay here and get a job. You can be close to your siblings, and we can help you out if things get tough.”

Then she shifted her tone. “We paid for your undergrad. We’ve already done so much for you. Stop thinking about what this family can give you and start thinking about what you’ve given to this family.”

I did what my dad did. I said nothing. I just sat there wondering: What exactly has this family ever given me? From the day I was born, they didn't even give me a name of my own.

* * *

I was born during the strictest years of the birth control laws. My parents already had my five-year-old sister, so my arrival was a secret.

When I was born, I didn't cry. My dad took one look at me and said, “She’s not going to make it. Just bury her.”

The midwife couldn't stand it. She tried everything—shocking my body with cold and hot water—but I lay there as still as a piece of wood. Finally, she had an idea. She had my dad blow cigarette smoke into my face while hanging me upside down.

Unbelievably, it worked. I lived. Who would have thought that the person who wanted me to live most wasn't my father, but a midwife I didn’t even know?

Because my existence was illegal, they couldn't let anyone know about me. They bundled me up and snuck me out to the countryside to live with my Great Aunt.

When my Great Aunt took me from my dad’s arms, he made it very clear: “We aren't giving her to you. We’re just letting you raise her for a few years. We’ll come back for her.”

They chose the five-year-old they already knew over the seven-month-old they didn't. They sent me away.

I spent my childhood in the country. My Great Aunt was amazing. She treated me like her own daughter. If her sons got something, I got a share too. Even though I don't make a lot now, I still send her a few thousand dollars every year.

When it was time for middle school, my parents suddenly decided to bring me back to the city. My Great Aunt’s eyes were full of tears as she patted my hand.

“When you go back,” she whispered, “be good. Work hard. Do what they say. That’s the only way they’ll love you.”

She turned to my parents and pleaded, “She’s been away a long time. She doesn't know you well. You need to put in the effort to get to know her.”

My mom only replied, “I don't have time for that kind of drama.”

Back in the city, the first thing they did was take me to the station to add me to the family registry. They didn't even give me a new name. They just gave me my sister’s old one.

They had gotten my sister a new identity and registry. I became the "replacement" eldest daughter on paper. My sister’s name was Chloe. My name became... Chloe.

I didn't understand. If my sister was the oldest, why did her new name mean "Little Rain," while I was just "Rain"?

I moved into my "real" home. I followed my Great Aunt’s advice. I was quiet. I was helpful. I did all the chores.

But in my sister’s eyes, my helpfulness was just a desperate attempt to suck up to our parents. In her world, you could brown-nose anyone, but you shouldn't have to brown-nose your own parents.

I was sent to a boarding school. The first time I ever rode in my dad’s car was when he dropped me off. He promised to pick me up every Friday.

But my mom told me, “Your dad is busy. He doesn't have time to drive out there every week. Don’t you dare call him and pester him.”

Was he really that busy? No. My mom just felt that I wasn't worth his time.

Later, when my brother started school nearby, my dad picked him up every single week. Suddenly, he had plenty of time for me, too—because I was the "buy one, get one free" passenger.

One time, we were all going out. My mom said, “Wait a minute, your dad needs to go pay the insurance premiums for your brother and sister.”

It turned out that when they bought health and life insurance, they only bought it for the two of them.

Maybe because they never invested any time or energy into me, they never learned to value me. You love what you nurture. Like the Little Prince and his rose—he loved his rose not because it was the only one, but because of the time he spent tending to it.

My parents never tended to me. And because they never loved me, I never learned how to depend on them.