Blurb：
Sixteen-year-old Nina Scott has always lived in the shadow of her cousin Yolanda Carter. After aunt Linda Carter sacrificed her life to save Nina's mother Tina Lewis from kidnappers, Yolanda developed trauma-induced autism and became the family's precious "little princess." Witness Nina's painful journey as she endures neglect from parents Tina Lewis and Gavin Scott while Yolanda receives all their love and attention. From childhood injuries ignored to destroyed piggy banks, Nina's achievements like her "Three Good Student" award go unrecognized in this emotionally charged family drama. Explore themes of sacrifice, favoritism, and resilience in this gripping young adult novel.
Content：
My name is Nina Scott, and I'm sixteen years old.For as long as I can remember, I've known there's someone in this family who's more important than me—my cousin Yolanda.
Yolanda is two months younger than me. Her mom, my aunt Linda Carter, died trying to save my mom, Tina Lewis.
That year, kidnappers cornered my mom at the end of the old alley, holding a knife to her neck demanding ransom. My aunt rushed over, threw herself onto the kidnapper, and was ultimately assaulted and killed. Her body was found beside a trash bin at the alley's end.
On the day my aunt was buried, Yolanda held her photo and didn't speak a word all day.
The doctor said she was so deeply traumatized that she developed autism and might never speak again.
My mom knelt at my aunt's grave, crying, promising to raise Yolanda Carter as her own daughter and never to treat her unfairly in her life.
From that day on, Yolanda moved into our home and became, quite officially, the "little princess" of the family.
When I was six, I was chasing butterflies in the yard, slipped, and fell onto the blue brick ground. My knee was badly scraped, blood mixed with dirt running down my leg, and it hurt so much I couldn't stop crying.
I bit my lip and crawled back inside, hoping for a hug from my mom—or at least a word of comfort.
But my mom had just come out of the kitchen, still holding the milk she'd warmed for Yolanda, and when she saw me crying, her first reaction was to frown: "Nina, stop bawling, what if you disturb Yolanda's sleep?"
She set the milk down on the coffee table, then slowly pulled some antiseptic out of the drawer. She dabbed it on my wound with a cotton swab, making me wince in pain. She scolded me for being too delicate: "It's no big deal, just tough it out. You have to set an example for Yolanda."
That afternoon, Yolanda was playing with building blocks in the living room and accidentally knocked over the container, scattering the blocks all over the floor.
She looked at my mom with red eyes, neither crying nor speaking.
My mom quickly ran over, knelt down, and pulled Yolanda into her arms, soothing her softly: "Yolanda, don't be afraid, I will take care of it, it's not your fault, our Yolanda is still so young."
I sat on the sofa, staring at the blood seeping through the bandage on my knee, suddenly feeling that the pain was nothing compared to the chill inside my heart.
When Yolanda was eight, I'd saved up my allowance for half a year and bought a pink piggy bank, hoping to save enough to buy Grandma a massager—Grandma suffered from rheumatism, and every winter the pain kept her awake.
That day, after school, when I got home, I saw Yolanda sitting on the floor, holding my piggy bank. Its opening was cracked, and coins were scattered all over the place. She was even stomping on them.
I rushed over, pulled her away, and picked up the piggy bank from the floor. Tears instantly started falling: "This was the money I saved to buy Grandma a massager! How could you break it?"
Yolanda shrank back from my yelling, her eyes red and puffy, head down, not saying a word.
My mom came in from the balcony, saw what was happening, pulled Yolanda behind her, and then snapped at me: "Nina! Why are you yelling at Yolanda? She has autism; she doesn't understand anything."
I pointed at the coin on the floor, crying, "She gets it! She knows this is my piggy bank!"
My dad, Gavin Scott, also came out of the study to back up my mom: "Nina, Yolanda is just expressing her emotions; that's a good sign. It means she's improving. You need to cut her some slack."
In the end, my mom gave Yolanda Carter fifty to buy snacks from the corner store downstairs, while I knelt on the floor, picking up those dusty coins one by one and dropping them back into the cracked piggy bank.
That night, I hugged the piggy bank under the covers and cried, sobbing well into the night, my eyes swollen like walnuts.
When I was in fifth grade, I received the "Three Good Student" award. The teacher said it was recognition of all my hard work that semester. Holding the award, I ran straight home, eager to be the first to tell my parents.
I opened the door and saw Yolanda Carter sitting at my desk, scissors in hand, carefully cutting the edges of my award.
"Yolanda! What are you doing?" I rushed over to grab the award, but it was too late. The award was in tatters, the edges all snipped off. "This is my Three Good Student award! How could you cut it up like this!"
Yolanda threw the scissors down, sat on the floor hugging her knees, her head buried in her chest, looking hurt and wronged.
My mom heard the noise and came out of the bedroom. Seeing the shattered certificate on the floor, then glancing at Yolanda curled up on the ground, she sighed, "Nina, don't take it too seriously with Yolanda. She's resisting, which means she's developing a sense of self—that's a good thing."
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