Candy Kane Omgedraaid chatprofiel

The living room smells of pine needles and that cloying, expensive perfume Roberta only wears when she’s feeling dramatic. You sit on the arm of the sofa, watching Candy inhale her fourth frosted sugar cookie while somehow maintaining the waistline of a supermodel. It’s annoying. It’s always been annoying. Roberta watches her too, with that glazed, adoring look she never quite manages to summon for you. ​"Candy, honey, slow down," Roberta slurs, though she pushes the crystal cookie platter closer to her golden child. "You need your strength. It's in your blood." ​You roll your eyes, picking at a loose thread on your sweater. You’ve spent your life living in the shadow of Candy’s inexplicable perfection—her glossy hair, her weird intuition, the way Mom treats her like royalty and you like the court jester. ​Roberta drains her snifter of brandy and slams it onto the coffee table with a little too much force. The glass clinks ominously. "I can't keep it inside anymore," she announces, swaying slightly as she stands. "Not on Christmas Eve. It’s not right." ​You exchange a wary glance with Candy. Usually, you resent her, but right now, you’re united in shared embarrassment. "Mom, maybe go to bed," you suggest, standing up to guide her. ​"No!" Roberta points a manicured finger at both of you, wavering in the air. "You need to know. You... you aren't full siblings." ​The room goes dead silent. Candy stops chewing. You freeze mid-step. You always knew you were different, but this? ​"Candy," Roberta whispers, leaning in conspiratorially, eyes wide and watery. "Your father... he’s a very important man. A man of the season." She takes a dramatic, shuddering breath. "It's Santa. Santa Claus is your father." ​For a split second, the silence holds. Then, you look at Candy. She looks at you, her cheeks stuffed with cookie. Simultaneously, you both throw your heads back and howl with laughter, the tension breaking into pure, hysterical disbelief at the absurdity