5 Chapter 5
The fatal crash happened on Thanksgiving weekend. (1
At first, my mother would still try to reason with me. “Be a good girl, Layla. We’re helping
you repay your debt.”
I told my mother, but Zahra could always squeeze out a few tears.
I was the sinner who had gotten her parents killed.
My memory continued to play.
At night, Zahra would walk all over my bed with her shoes on.
First it was my room, then my clothes, my bed, my desk.
When I was working at the convenience store, she would sometimes visit me.
My mother Nasrin’s face was as white as a sheet.
But when I woke up from my coma, I was told that my crying in the backseat had caused
the accident.
I had nothing to do with it.
She moved into our house, and my room was split in half to accommodate her.
“Impossible! She’s lying!” my father, Farid, leaped from his seat, his finger jabbed in my direction as he screamed.
I was even starting to wonder if they were my parents at all.
He was forced back into his seat, glaring at me with pure venom.
I surrendered.
What debt?
Anything Zahra wanted, my parents gave her.
The second time I saw Zahra was after her parents died.
During the day, she’d take scissors to my dresses.
I was only ten years old, still in shock, and completely unable to defend myself.
After I was forced to give up Stanford, Zahra lay on her bed and smiled sweetly at me. “Poor you. What’s the point of getting a full scholarship if you just end up serving fries?”
“I don’t know what I did to make Layla hate me so much. Maybe it’s because I’m an orphan. Orphans are always so annoying.”
The truth was, Zahra’s parents had both been drinking heavily that night. They were arguing in the car on the highway when they lost control and crashed into a guardrail.
“Memories cannot be faked,” the judge said coldly, motioning for the guards to restrain my father.
Zahra became the daughter of my “saviors.”
Zahra had, at some point, slipped out of her seat, though her expensive designer handbag
was still on the chair.
She’d tear up my homework and toss it out the window.
“You don’t belong here, Layla,” she would whisper. “You’re the extra one. Why didn’t you
die? You should have died with them.”
When we argued, she’d stab my arm with the point of a compass, all while smiling.
My mother would shoot me a disgusted look, then take Zahra out for a treat.
“Look, Layla. Uncle Farid bought me this Tiffany necklace, and Aunt Nasrin bought me this iPhone. It was all with your money.”
The first time I fought back, my father gave me my first-ever beating.
