I hated her from the day I met her. 

My stepmother’s face was brown, her body stout and palms wide. Although my own father was no youth, I could tell she was older than he was. In my mind, there was only room for one mother in this house–mine–and her place was already reserved, ready to be defended against this stranger. I fought her on everything: her cooking, her accent, and her crude Russian. 

Every night, I would take out a faded photograph of my true mother and hold it up against my mirror. This has become routine to me. I would look at my mother’s flawless face and figure, stepping back to compare. 

My skin is still as pale and youthful as hers–good. I take precautions; I wear my sunscreen and long sleeves. My eyes and hair are dark, but I don’t mind–I inherited them from my father.  I would go to bed once I was sufficiently convinced that I looked just like my perfect, young, supermodel mother. And I would pray for her to come back and rescue me from this stupid village in the middle of nowhere. 

Who knew? It worked. 

The day I received an invitation to spend a week with my mother in Moscow was the best day of my life. It has been several years since I’ve seen her, but I don’t blame her. It can’t be easy being famous. 

“Shyrailym,” my dad says. “Are you sure–” 

“Yes,” I interrupt him, rummaging in my closet for my nicest clothes. Nothing seems good enough. “We’ve been over this, Dad.” 

“It is no use, Marat.” My stepmother suddenly appears in the doorway. “Send the girl off. Maybe  then we’ll get some peace around here.” 

“I knew it. You want me to leave. And you hate my mom because she’s better than you.” I glare at her, and my father sighs. “Well, I don’t care. And I’m never coming back.” I stomp out of the room. 

“Good!” she cries after me. 

I meet my mother at the train station. She kisses me, her assistants surrounding us to reapply her lipstick. There are seven of them–all male, all talking at once, all coordinated and intimidating.

“Shyra—Shi— how about I call you Snezhka? I think it would fit a pretty girl like you. You’re going to love these shoots and events I’ve planned for us,” my mother says on the car ride to her studio. I shine with joy. “Careful, dear. You’re going to give yourself smile lines.” She pats my head. 

“Sorry,” I say, but I can’t help the grin that takes over my face. 

After three days of grueling shoots, travel, and a new dietary plan, a familiar and unwelcome face peeks inside my dressing room. 

“Shyrailym,” my stepmother says. “Please, come home. Your father, your friends–we miss you.” 

I straighten my shoulders and meet her eyes head-on, my Cara heavy on my head. She was hoping to see a weak little girl, but I am beautiful. I stand proud, desperately hoping this angers her. 

“I’m staying in Moscow forever. And it’s Snezhka now.” 

She eyes me skeptically, stepping closer. My breath catches in my throat, but that could be my corset. “What is this that they put on you? This decoration?” 

“Jealous? It’s from my real mom. We’re doing a photoshoot today. I’m going to be on a  billboard.” 

“Shyrailym—” 

“Snezhka.” 

“—You must come home. You’re a little girl, not good for this kind of work.” Her wrinkled hand touches one of the pearls on my corset. “You are so thin. Do they not feed you?” 

I resist the urge to snarl at her. My temper always came with tears, and I have to look perfect for the photoshoot, for my mom. But before I can say anything, my stepmother reaches into her purse, and the smell of warm qazy overwhelms my senses. I freeze, eyes wide and unsure. 

“Well? Eat,” my stepmother orders, shoving the soft chunks of horse meat in my hands. The hunger I have been battling since this morning’s tiny breakfast takes over, and I stuff my face with the taste of home. My stepmother offers a small apple after I’ve inhaled the meat, and the sour tang of our orchard is enough to bring tears to my eyes after all. 

I suck in a pained breath. This is too much. I push past her and run out in the hallway, where I promptly crash into one of my mother’s assistants.

“There you are!” he says, grabbing me by the shoulder. “Oh god, what did you do to your makeup? And we just tightened that corset!” I shrink away, blushing furiously. “Never mind all that. There’s been a schedule change. We needed you on set over five minutes ago.” 

Everything happens very quickly after that. 

I see my mother as they rush me into a giant, doll box prop. My heart thumps fast in my constricted chest. I feel lightheaded. I shouldn’t have eaten so fast. I try to tell her. 

“Not now, baby. After the shoot.” She pushes me inside the box. I look for her through the clear plastic, but I can’t find her. The photographer’s frustrated face tells me I’m not doing the poses right.  

I can’t help it. My stomach churns violently, and I throw up all over my corset, my dress, and the plastic faces of everyone on set. I pass out immediately after. 

When I come to, I am lying in the lap of a woman. A bright light shines behind her head, forming a halo and casting a dark shadow on her face. 

“Mom?” I say weakly. 

“She said she was busy, so she left,” my stepmother’s accent filters through. She lets me sit up, and I notice that neither the Cara nor the corset is on me anymore. The horrifying truth of her words hits me in a second violent wave, and I dry-heave. She pats me on the back. 

“You need to go, right now.” The assistants swarm me, and I can’t fit all their words in my head at the same time. “I can’t believe it. That was an Owens original.” 

“We’re never getting the deposit on the box prop now.” 

“God, it smells. Those were real pearls on the corset.” 

“Come on,” my stepmother says, pulling me to my feet. “Let’s go.” 

She lets me cry into her shoulder the entire train ride home.