2. The Birth of Jule
Time flew by, and five years had passed since Okaasama arrived. I was now nine years old. Every year on my birthday, Okaasama would present me with two formal dresses and a bouquet, always saying they were from “Father and Mother.” There would also be a lavish meal and a large cake.
Father remained as indifferent to me as ever. Two years ago, my younger brother was born. His name was Jule. The young lord, Jule Muzel.
Now three years old, my little brother had inherited Okaasama’s black hair and Father’s green eyes. He was called the angel of the estate, and the nannies and servants all but competed to dote on him.
Since Jule’s birth, Father had lost interest in Okaasama as well. He saw Jule as his heir. I felt that if I didn’t play with him as much as I could now, Father would soon take him away from me.
Okaasama was kind, and Jule was adorable. We were like a little family of three, which, in a way, made me feel like the one who had been taken in.
There was just one thing. While Okaasama would coo “my sweet Jule” to my brother, she would tell me, every single day and at every opportunity, “Since you are so unattractive…”
I’d heard it so often I thought my ears would grow calluses. But I never complained, because that was her very reason for convincing Father to pay for my education.
I knew better than anyone that I was unattractive. It was why Father avoided me, why Okaasama said it so relentlessly, and why not even the maids ever praised my appearance. Even when I dressed up, the most I would get from Okaasama was a, “Well, that suits you, I suppose.”
It became even more pronounced after Jule was born… which was frustrating, but even I had to admit that Jule was adorable. I couldn’t help but hug him whenever he smiled at me. He was just so precious.
Holding on to the memory of her first compliment—that I was clever—I threw myself into reading. Tutors were hired for me, and I was gradually taught not only academics but also the cultural arts: etiquette, poetry, music, dance, painting, and embroidery. Driven by the thought, ‘Since I’m unattractive, I have to be good at everything else,’ I never slacked in my efforts. And Okaasama praised me for all of it.
Even when my embroidery was a complete mess, she’d say, “You have a wonderful sense for choosing colors.” After a halting, stuttering poetry reading, she’d tell me, “It sounds so lovely when I hear it in your voice.”
It was all so confusing. She would never, ever call me attractive, but I believed that Okaasama loved me. In fact, she often told me, “I love you,” and I knew it wasn’t a lie from the warmth I felt whenever she held me.
My appearance was the one thing no one ever praised. I sometimes cried alone in my sadness, but I was learning to express myself logically and coherently. One day, I decided, I would ask her. “Am I truly that ugly?”
But I couldn’t yet muster the courage. I was afraid that if she confirmed I was ugly, I would finally come to hate the very features I secretly cherished—the hair and eyes I had inherited from my real mother.
I also learned the meaning of “stepmother” and “second wife.” And with that, I understood why the maids and other servants never seemed to approve of Okaasama.
The reason, I heard, was that she had been a notorious courtesan and a woman of pleasure in high society. I didn’t fully grasp what those words meant, but the Okaasama I knew—the one who sat doing her embroidery while Jule and I clung to her legs—didn’t seem like the kind of person who deserved such wicked words.
Whenever I looked up at her, she would smile back gently. Okaasama had been nineteen when she became my mother; now she was twenty-four. My initial impression of her as young, beautiful, and seemingly strong had softened into an image of a calm, gentle, and beautiful woman.
I liked my Okaasama. I loved her. And I even liked myself—the unattractive girl—or at least, I liked everything about myself except for my appearance.
I wished I could have been a beauty, just like her. So, I decided that I would at least try to emulate her kindness. I, too, would grow up to be a kind adult, one who could pour affection onto her own children.
But one question never faded: Why wasn’t I attractive?