I'm an Outsider in My Own Home

I knew Francesca had never considered me as family. When she first started at an elite school, the headmaster, Carlo Basso, personally came to the house to register her.

When filling in the family members section, Francesca counted on her manicured fingers and smiled sweetly.

"There's Papa, Mamma, Fabio, Luca, and me. That makes exactly five of us."

Papa and Mamma gazed at her adoringly, and Mr. Basso chimed in with a flurry of flattery.

Not one of them corrected her.

I stood off to the side like a maid, holding her heavy designer schoolbag for her.

Another time, I used money I'd saved up for ages to buy a limited-edition vinyl record. When the package arrived, Francesca was right in the middle of filming a video with gifts from her fans scattered all over the floor.

She stared at the box with my name on it for three seconds, then turned around and tossed it straight out the window.

I rushed downstairs, only to find the crushed remains of the record on the road.

While grooming Pico, Francesca poked her head out the window to look at me.

"Valentina, what are you doing running into the middle of the road? It's dangerous! Oh? So that dirty box was your stuff? I thought it was garbage. Sorry about that."

As I looked at her innocent smiling face, it suddenly dawned on me that to her, I was nothing more than garbage to be thrown out at any moment—just like the record.

In comparison, Fabio seemed to treat me a little better.

But that was only because I was still a reasonably obedient and unpaid maid.

In this enormous mansion, dozens of professionally trained household staff were clearly employed. Yet, whether it was brewing coffee, cleaning up pet excrement, or signing for those heavy packages, he naturally dumped all these tedious chores on me.

Once, at 3:00 am, he called me and said, "Bring the documents from home to the office, and be quick about it."

Afraid of holding things up, I forced myself to stay awake and helped him bring it over.

Without even looking up, he just said, "Leave them there."

There wasn't even a token word of thanks from him.

Even so, deep in my heart, I still longed for the shelter of my family.

In middle school, a few boys in class talked all day about the business genius from the Coppola family and the game he made in elementary school.

They went on about how fun that game was, how much money it made, and how great it would be to know him.

I couldn't help but murmur, "That's my older brother."

They instantly burst into loud laughter.

"Look at you, all shabby with no game console, and you've got the nerve to say Fabio is your older brother?"

I ran home with red eyes, wanting to borrow Fabio's crest pin, which represented his status, as proof.

But he looked up from his papers and said with eyes full of scorn, "You want me to lend it to you so you can make a fool of us?"

Mamma was nearby, frowning with disgust. "Where on earth did you learn such shabby behavior?"

Papa also reprimanded me coldly, "I sent you to school to study, not to cause trouble under this family's name."

And so, saddled with the label of "liar", I was mocked all the way until graduation.

Later, while cleaning Fabio's room, I saw that the very crest pin I'd begged for and been denied was casually tossed into the dog bed as a toy.

As for Luca, the sports star who won gold medals in every competition so effortlessly, his disdain for me was even more blatant.

He won a national championship at 12 years old, and by 15, he was sweeping international competitions.

When I used the first bit of money I'd saved from my part-time job to buy him a gift to celebrate his latest gold medal, he looked me up and down with confusion.

"Are you really Papa's kid? How come you've got none of the elite genes?"

Later, I found the paternity test report between Papa and me on his desk, which clearly showed a confirmed biological relationship.

In the margins, Luca had scribbled in red pen, "Paternity confirmed. Yet, entirely lacking the family's elite genetic markers. A curious case, indeed."

I took that report and went to confront him.

But he didn't so much as bat an eye as he said with perfect composure, "I was just a little curious. Don't you think you don't look like one of us at all?"

Last year, Luca won first place by a landslide in the world's most prestigious competition, earning immense prestige for the family.

Overjoyed, Papa threw him a grand victory party at the club.

Under the spotlight, Luca took the microphone and said, "I'd like to invite my family on stage for a photo to share this honor."

Papa, Mamma, Fabio, and Francesca went up in turn. Luca even turned around and scooped Neve up onto the stage.

Meanwhile, the emcee hesitated, looking toward me, who was standing on the sidelines.

"What about that young lady over there?"

But Luca just glanced at me, his tone dripping with contempt. "Oh, just ignore her. She's our maid."

The club erupted in thunderous applause as camera flashes lit up the room.

On stage, the five of them beamed with dazzling smiles. The occasional glances they cast my way passed through me as if I were nothing but air.

I stood alone in the shadows below the stage, digging my nails into my palms.

It was the first time I realized that at the very depths of sadness, tears were impossible to hold in.