Sylvia Rivelle

The 'Perfect' Daughter

“Mum, my…my uniform is ripped,” I whispered meekly. She doesn’t turn. “Are you sure? I don’t think that’s possible, Selena,” she replied dismissively. I turned, about to go back to my room, careful not to make any noise, when my brother walked in. He smelled like sunshine and the field, bringing the sunlight into the house. His posture said it all: he owned the room. Meanwhile, I was just the background—the curtain, the wallpaper.