An Unloved Daughter Can Go Farther

On the eve of our coming-of-age trials, my little sister, Elsa, threw a fit because she wanted to go to the bay. My older brother, Paul, demanded the snowfields. Their arguing got louder and louder until Mom and Dad finally ran out of patience. “Mom will go with Paul to the snowfields, and Dad will go with Elsa to the bay. You’ll both have someone with you. Fair enough?” “And Annie will stay home, so we don’t have to waste energy protecting her.” Paul and Elsa always had endless demands. Mom and Dad always had to take one of them each and calm them down. And me, the extra child, always had my needs ignored. I asked quietly, “Can I go with you?” Elsa was screaming for Dad to look at the bay’s travel poster. They didn’t hear me at all. Mom only brushed me off. “You’re eighteen and still don’t have a wolf spirit. Don’t go out there and embarrass us.” I froze. Then I lowered my head and said nothing. On the night of my eighteenth birthday, I awakened a white wolf. Three days ago, I submitted my application to the Royal Academy three thousand miles away. Yesterday, I received my admission letter and a full-ride scholarship. When no one loved you, you could go anywhere alone. … They gathered around the hide-covered sofa, discussing the trials that would begin the day after tomorrow. Paul flipped through a map of the Aurora Snowfields. Elsa stared at a dance poster for Sunwarm Bay. Mom and Dad sat beside them, writing down every single one of their requests. I stood two steps away, unable to get a word in. I didn’t know what they were talking about when Mom suddenly turned to Paul. “Paul, I pulled some strings and made an appointment with a senior mentor from the warband. When you come back from your trial, he’ll help you plan your combat track and pave your way to becoming a warrior.” My hand tightened behind my back. The confirmation letter in my fingers crumpled. A few months ago, when I was preparing for my evaluations, I had asked Mom in a small voice, “Mom, can you help me look over the academy list?” She had been busy coaching Elsa through combat training. She didn’t even look up. “Decide for yourself. If you don’t have a wolf spirit, you should work harder, not keep trying to use your parents as a shortcut.” Dad pushed a warm cup of moonberry milk toward Elsa. “Don’t just think about having fun. Your grappling and footwork are weak. When you come back from your trial, we’ll hire someone to train you.” “We can afford it.” We can afford it. I had never heard them say those words to me for as long as I could remember. Last month, I needed a copy of an ancient wolf-pack manual. It only cost twenty dollars. I asked several times, but Dad only frowned and snapped, “If you don’t have talent, don’t waste resources. Your mother and I work hard for our money. Stop daydreaming all day. You’re just not made for that.” That same afternoon, he ordered full custom training sets for Paul and Elsa. Elsa had complained, “Extra practice every day. Dad is so annoying. Why doesn’t Annie have to do extra practice?” The moment the words left her mouth, she seemed to realize something. Her eyes shifted away. Because I was wolf-less. No one cared about my future. They had no idea that, on the night the whole family celebrated Elsa’s awakening, I awakened the Sacred Spring in the forbidden grounds that had been dry for a thousand years. I took the Royal Academy’s only full-ride scholarship spot. At dinner, the long table was set with roasted venison Paul loved and venison bone soup Elsa liked to drink. Mom and Dad busied themselves cutting meat and picking bones for them. Paul ate and asked, “Annie, why aren’t you eating?” Dad gave me a cold glance. “She’s always picky. Leave her alone. If she gets hungry, she’ll find something.” “I’m not hungry.” I lowered my head and bit into the hard rye bread in my hand. Deep in my consciousness, my wolf spirit rolled over and let out a low whine. I was allergic to venison. When I was little, I had cried and begged them. “Mom, Dad, I don’t want to always eat what Paul and Elsa like. I want to eat food I like too…” Mom had overturned the food in front of me straight into the trash. “If you don’t want to eat, then get out! This family doesn’t need spoiled trash!” That time, they let me go hungry for a full day and night. After I finished the bread, I returned to the cramped attic, contacted a driver, and booked a direct trip to the Royal Academy in the capital. I looked out at the night sky as memory after memory rose inside me. The year Elsa was born, the whole family fought to take care of her. I was sent away to live on a distant relative’s territory. By the time I was brought back to the pack at ten, Mom and Dad had already gotten used to a family of four. All love and all resources were always split in two. Not a single bit belonged to me. Just then, the wooden panel outside my door was knocked. Elsa’s voice slipped through. “Annie, stop pretending you’re asleep. Come wash the dishes.” “Okay.” I answered out of habit. The rule in our house was supposed to be that the pups took turns washing dishes. But Mom said, “Elsa is still young. She’s never done chores. Her hands are delicate. She can’t carry them.” Dad said, “Paul is the hope of this family. He needs to save his strength for the trial. He can’t waste energy on chores.” So every dish became mine to wash. Cold water rushed over my fingers. Suddenly, I remembered the winter before last, when I was bitten by a venomous snake. My whole arm had gone numb and burned with pain. I ran a high fever all night. But when I struggled downstairs the next morning, the sink was piled even higher with dishes. I dried my frozen hands. Only twenty-four hours remained. These hands would never again soak in dishwater full of their prejudice.