My parents froze. They were speechless, and that was just the beginning because the real story, the one they never saw coming, was about to unfold.
And I wasn’t going anywhere.
My name is Jennifer Maddox. But to my family, that name has never meant much. I was the invisible daughter, the wrong daughter, the one who never quite fit into the world they built for themselves. Polished, perfect, all surface, no depth.
From the earliest days I can remember, I was the one on the outside looking in. I can still see the way my parents looked at me across the dinner table. The slight frowns they thought I didn’t notice. The way they praised my younger sister for every little thing—her hair, her smile, her piano recital—while I sat there in silence, poking at cold mashed potatoes, waiting for them to look at me.
Really look at me.
But they never did. She was their little queen, the golden child, the one they called princess in public and darling at home. Every photograph on the mantle was of her—Easter dresses, tiaras, ballet poses. My photos were few and far between. A blurred school portrait. A forgotten birthday.
