Chapter 3

The food blogger posted his review that evening. He raved about the "surprisingly sophisticated rosemary chicken slider" and credited it to the "charming and talented Brittany Miller." He called her a rising star. Reading the article on my phone felt like swallowing glass. It wasn't just a lie, it was a coordinated deception. Brittany had taken my work, Liam had supported her, and my mother had enabled it all. A wave of cold realization washed over me, I was a ghostwriter for my own life, and they were all profiting from it.

I wanted to scream, to expose them, to post my own version of the story with the pictures I had of me developing the recipe. But I stopped myself. The blog post also mentioned that the critic was a preliminary judge for the National Youth Culinary Championship. If I caused a scene now, I' d be blacklisted. I had to swallow the injustice, for now. My chance to prove myself had to be on a bigger stage. The frustration was a bitter pill, but I forced it down, a strategic retreat.

The next day was my birthday. It was also, by a twist of fate, Brittany's birthday. We were born on the same day, years apart. It was a fact my mother used to call "a sign of our special sisterly bond." This year, it just highlighted how invisible I was. The house was filled with balloons and a giant "Happy Birthday Brittany!" banner. There was no mention of me. The contrast was stark, a visual representation of my place in this new family. I was a footnote on her special day.

I found my mother in the kitchen, arranging a mountain of presents on the table, all for Brittany. "Mom?" I asked, my voice small. "Did you... remember what day it is?"

She turned, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face before it was replaced with a strained smile. "Of course, dear. Happy birthday. Look, I'm a little busy with Brittany's party planning. Her friends will be here any minute. Can we celebrate you later? Maybe next week?"

Her words were casual, but they felt like a deliberate dismissal. She was choosing to forget me, to prioritize her step-daughter's happiness over my own. It was a cold, quiet rejection that hurt more than any shouting match could.

Just then, Brittany waltzed in, followed by Liam. "Chloe, what are you doing just standing there? You haven't even started on the party food," she said, her tone dripping with condescension. "Don't tell me you're still upset about that silly blog post. You should be happy for me. For the family." She framed my pain as selfishness, a direct insult that made my cheeks burn with humiliation.

Brittany then threw her arms around Liam. "Isn't he the best, Chloe? He got me this amazing bracelet for my birthday." She held up her wrist, showing off a delicate silver chain. Liam preened under her praise, giving her a loving look that made my stomach churn. They were a perfect, happy couple, a united front, and their public display of affection was just another way to push me further out, to isolate me completely.

I retreated to my room, the sounds of their party echoing up the stairs. I scrolled through my mom's social media, a foolish, masochistic impulse. There it was: a photo of her, her new husband, Brittany, and Liam, all smiling around a massive birthday cake. The caption read: "So blessed to celebrate my wonderful daughter Brittany's 18th birthday with the people we love most!"

They hadn't just forgotten my birthday, they had publicly erased it. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. It was a profound, gut-wrenching heartbreak. I wasn't just neglected, I was intentionally and completely abandoned by the one person who was supposed to love me unconditionally. I was nothing to them.