Clara Wren’s little brother was six years younger than she was. Not long after Clara was born, her parents left her in their rural hometown and moved to a small city to scrape together a living. When she turned six, they brought her to the city for school. Clara had thought—had genuinely believed—that from then on she would finally live with her parents.

But then her brother was born. And for a family like theirs, taking care of two children was impossible. So, that New Year, her parents brought the one-year-old boy back with them and sent Clara back to the village.

Back then, Clara craved her parents’ love with a fierce, aching intensity. But all their attention hovered around the tiny boy they adored, as if Clara were invisible.

That time, they left Clara at the village and, after only a few days, took the baby and left again—leaving her with no one but her grandmother.

There were plenty of families like hers in that village.

Grandma couldn’t read, had never gone far beyond the mountains that cradled their home, yet she always told Clara, “Ranran, you have to study hard. Only then can you take hold of your own life. Don’t be like me, stuck in this poor valley forever.”

Clara’s memories of her parents blurred after the age of seven, the year they walked away with her brother. From then on, she only called them “Dad” and “Mom” through the thin, metallic distance of a phone line. Her entire childhood belonged to her grandmother—a woman warm, kind, and endlessly generous.

Grandma taught her how to survive on her own. By the time she was small, Clara already knew skills other children her age would never learn. Every time she thought of her grandmother’s gentle smile, her eyes stung with tears.

And now… now her heart carried complaints she had never dared voice. They abandoned her in that village for thirteen years, never asking what she wanted. And now, without her consent, they had uprooted her again—dragging her away from the only life she had ever known. As if her wishes had never mattered at all.

Maybe it was that buried resentment toward her parents that extended—unfairly, almost blindly—to her brother as well. So most of the time, Clara simply stayed quiet.

“Jiejie, have some braised pork.”  

Seven-year-old her brother, Ancheng, placed a glossy piece of meat into her bowl. Clara stared at it without speaking.

Her father beamed at the boy, pride and affection warm in his eyes. “See? He knows how to take care of his sister.”

But over the past few days, Clara had noticed that her brother wasn’t like the boys back in the village—boys who, spoiled by their parents and their own entitlement, bullied their sisters because they were male and the favored child. No, Ancheng felt… simple. Clear. Gentle, even.

Clara didn’t truly dislike him. She just didn’t know how to be close to him.

Throughout dinner, she didn’t speak to her parents at all. She only wanted to finish her food quickly, wash the dishes, and retreat into her room.

When they were done eating, Clara stood to gather the bowls and chopsticks.

“I’ll wash them,” her mother said, her tone mild. “Go do your homework. Things here aren’t like your old place—I’m afraid the change might make it harder for you to keep up.”

Clara froze for a breath, then nodded and slipped back to her room.

She remembered her mother as someone who rarely spoke, someone who didn’t display affection the way her father did toward the boy. Now, this gentle sentence—short, quiet—felt unfamiliar.

Near bedtime, her mother knocked and entered.

Clara looked up, face blank, waiting.

“Are you getting used to things here?”

Clara wanted to shout no. Instead, she nodded. Habit. Survival. She was still a child who hadn’t learned how to speak her own truth, who didn’t know how to communicate with parents she felt nothing toward, who had never learned the courage to say no. Endurance had become instinct.

“Ranran,” her mother sighed softly, “you’re older now. You must have your own thoughts. Your father and I… we really didn’t have a choice. Back then, we had no ability to raise you by our side. Later, when things got a little better, we already had Chengcheng, and the business kept us too busy to care for both of you. Now that the business is steadier, we finally brought you here.”

There was guilt in her voice—real guilt, the kind that cracked through years of silence.

Clara bit her thumb and lowered her head, saying nothing.

“In time,” her mother said quietly, “things will get better. I hope… I hope I can make up for the mother’s love you’ve missed for so many years.”

Clara fought her tears fiercely, her head bowed, her breath trembling. Just a few simple sentences, but something inside her gave way. A door she had kept shut for years creaked open, letting her long-buried hurt spill into the light.