The part of the cake that had fallen on the floor was no longer edible, but there was still a half that hadn’t touched the ground.

I placed the remaining half into a bowl and grabbed the paper plate.

Mom stopped me. "Shirley Powers, don’t eat the cake. I’ll buy you another one another day."

I shook my head.

"There’s still half that’s clean. We shouldn’t waste it."

I set the cake in front of the photo of my sister and me.

My room was large; it once had another bed for my sister, but it's gone now.

I divided the cake into two, giving one half to my sister and keeping the other for myself.

Looking at the photo with a face so like mine, I said slowly, "Sister, today is our birthday. Happy birthday to you."

"Brother doesn’t like me. Did I really do something wrong back then? Sister, will you forgive me?"

A breeze passed by, and I suddenly realized no one would respond to me now.

I forced a smile. "Just forget it. Today is our birthday. Let’s just eat the cake."

I placed the other half of the cake in front of her and began to talk about recent trivial matters.

As I spoke, I couldn’t help but add, "Sister, I have a boyfriend now. I really like him."

My brother and I went to the same school, but he never accompanied me.

He said he didn’t want anyone to know I was his sister; it was embarrassing.

Because I was a murderer.

He always insulted me this way.

Only when he talked about my sister did his temper soften.

Maybe it was because there was a strong sibling bond, but I wished my brother would hug me like he used to.

But I knew that was impossible.

He only had Christine Powers as a sister; there was no place for Shirley Powers.

Yet, when I was ten, Shirley Powers went along too, and my personality began to resemble Christine Powers more and more.

Sometimes, neighbors even felt I was Christine Powers.

Shirley Powers used to be lively and energetic, but now, Shirley Powers was gentle and quiet like Christine Powers.

I was afraid of making mistakes, of not receiving love.

Only when I acted like Christine Powers did Mom praise me for being good.

Sometimes she even called me Christine Powers; it was as if she saw me as Christine Powers.

She projected her guilt for another daughter onto me.

But I hoped that even if everyone in the world loved Christine Powers, there would still be someone who loved Shirley Powers.

Like my beloved, Jack Fernandez.