Father didn’t scold or beat us, but he didn’t accept us either. At dinner, the only one whose day he would ask about was Sin. How is your embroidering coming along? How are the roses you’re tending? Is the chicken you’re keeping laying eggs yet? What about the finch you’re looking after, is its claw better? Has it healed? The cake you made is delicious! Oh, look, Sin is so productive! Meanwhile, Father treated us almost as if we didn’t exist, as if we were the remnants of a past that Mother had to lug around with her. His first wife had died and he needed someone to take care of him. He couldn’t live without someone else’s help. Someone to ready his breakfast, his clothes, his shoes. A companion to play around with under the mosquito netting. And he was crazy about Mother. She was a beautiful widow.

Mother was the flower of her village when she was young. Even though she was poor, all the men sought her hand in marriage. Back then only girls from rich families could go to school, so to make a living she worked as a maid in the home of a regent. Wanting to improve her station in life, she approached the regent after his wife died. Two months after that it was official: Mother became his wife. He was our biological father, though neither of us remembers him because he died when I was only two.

The people around us called Mother a harlot, saying she had used all the wiles at her disposal to get rich. Years later, they called my sister and me harlots too, when we were criticised for mistreating Sin. We got used to it, child. Our blood boiled like magma; we hated coming second.

For a dozen years, Mother lived off the wealth that our father had left behind. She was strong enough to care for us alone, but the estate of her deceased husband would only last so long. When I was fourteen, Sin’s father, a close friend of my own father, grew close to Mother. People started gossiping about her anew. But once again, Mother didn’t care. She married Sin’s father shortly after his wife passed away. See, child, our family is used to making do with hand-me-downs.

Our stepfather of course could never be our biological father, but we wanted his attention too. We had learned that, in this world, fathers reign over everything. So, we hugged him and longed to climb on his shoulders and ride them as if we were riding power.