Chapter – 02
Jules’s Birth
Time fliesâfive years have passed since Mother came. I am now nine years old, and every year Mother prepares two dresses for special occasions and a bouquet of flowers for me, saying they’re from both her and Father. The meals are lavish, and a large cake is always prepared.
Father remains as indifferent to me as ever, and the year before last, a younger brother was born. His name is Jules. Jules Musel, son of the Count.
My little brother is now three years old. He has Mother’s black hair and Father’s green eyes. The household calls him an angel, and the nursemaids and servants compete to dote on him.
After Jules was born, Father stopped showing interest even in Mother. Father intends to make Jules his heir. I need to spend as much time playing with him as I can now, before Father takes him away.
Mother is kind, and Jules is adorable. We seem just like a family of threeâwith me being the one who was brought in.
There is just one thing. Mother calls Jules “my adorable Jules,” but to me, she says every single day, “Since you’re not cute…” and brings it up at every opportunity. I’ve heard it so often that I’ve grown calluses on my ears by now. But I don’t complain, because when she says that, she makes Father pay for my education expenses.
I know better than anyone that I’m not cute. That’s why Father avoids me, why Mother keeps saying it, and why even the maids never praise me. When I dress up, all I get is a “Well, it suits you moderately” from Mother.
After Jules was born, it’s even more… infuriating, but even I can see how cute Jules is. When he smiles at me, I can’t help but hug him. He really is precious.
I took the first praise I ever receivedâthat I was cleverâto heart and read many books. A tutor was assigned to me, and I was taught not just academics but also manners, poetry, music, dance, painting, embroidery, and other accomplishments little by little. Since I wasn’t cute, I never slackened in my efforts, and Mother praised me for all of it.
No matter how messy my failed embroidery was, she’d say I had a sense for color choices. Even when I stumbled through reading poetry aloud, she’d say it sounded lovely in my voice.
Honestly, it’s so confusing. She absolutely refuses to call me cute, yet I think Mother loves me. In fact, she does tell me she loves me, and I can tell it’s not a lie from the warmth of her embraces.
No one ever praises my appearance. Sometimes I cried alone in my sadness, but I’ve become able to express my opinions logically now, so I think I’ll ask Mother someday: “Am I really that ugly?”
But I still don’t have the courage. If she were to declare me ugly, I might end up hating the hair and eyes I inherited from my real motherâthe features I secretly treasure in my heart.
I also learned the meanings of “stepmother” and “second wife.” And I understood why the maids and servants don’t look favorably upon Mother.
Apparently, she was a famous courtesan and playgirl in high society. I couldn’t quite grasp what “courtesan” or “playgirl” meant, but the Mother sitting here now, with me and Jules clinging to her feet as we do embroidery, didn’t seem like the kind of person they spoke so ill of.
When I look up at her, she smiles back gently. Mother, who was nineteen when she became my mother, is now twenty-four. My first impression of her was young, beautiful, and strong-willed, but that impression has changed to calm, kind, and beautiful.
I love Mother. I truly do. And even though I’m not cute, I like everything about myself except my looks.
If only I could be as beautiful as Mother. So at least let me imitate her kindness. I want to become a gentle adult who showers children with love.
Why am I not cute? That one feeling never went away.
