In Her Death, She Gained Sight

1 I was born with a weak heart. The doctors said I wouldn’t live to see eighteen. When I was ten, my parents brought home a blind girl they said was my twin sister. Our family doted on me, lavishing me with affection, but they were always cold to my sister. Everyone whispered that Hope existed for one reason: to give me her heart. So I poured all my love into this girl who looked just like me, trying to soothe the guilt that clawed at my soul. Then came my eighteenth birthday. I lay on the operating table, ready. But it wasn’t my heart they took. It was my corneas. And then I died. And my sister, Hope, received the gift of sight. … The moment the heart monitor let out its long, final scream, I thought my life had ended right there. A torrent of memories flooded my mind, finally settling on the instant I first opened the door and saw Hope. The day she arrived, I was curled up on the huge cashmere sofa in the living room, sipping my expensive imported medication. The door swung open, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and a world I’d never known. She stood in the doorway, a slip of a girl, dark and thin like a wild weed. Her clothes were worn, her small hands clutching a tattered canvas bag. Her eyes were a cloudy gray. Just like mine, and yet, completely different. “This is your sister, Hope,” Mom said. Her voice was flat. She didn’t reach out to touch her. Hope said nothing, her head bowed. It didn’t take me long to realize that Mom didn’t seem to like this new sister. Looking at this child, a mirror image of myself, a strange ache settled deep in my chest. From that day on, I gave her everything I had. New dresses, imported chocolates, my favorite porcelain doll. She was given the small, north-facing room, while I kept the large, sunny one. At dinner, the family would circle me, laughing and piling my plate with the best cuts of meat. When it came to Hope, Mom would just say, “She can get it herself.” Her tone was clipped, dismissive. I knew they cherished me. All because of my heart. The fact that I wouldn’t live past eighteen was my deepest secret. When I was ten, my parents brought Hope home, my blind twin sister. They said she was a gift from God. Everyone told me, in hushed tones, that Hope’s very existence was meant to keep me alive. I believed them. So I tried desperately to be good to her. I wanted to make up for it, to give her everything I had to give. Jane, our housekeeper, used to mutter behind her hand, “Miss Ava is the treasure, Miss Hope is the weed.” I heard her. It only made me give Hope more. One afternoon, I took her by the hand and led her on a tour of the house. “The curtains,” I murmured, guiding her fingers. “Velvet.” “A vase. Glass. It’s cool to the touch.” I helped her find the piano keys. A single, jarring note sprang out. She flinched, then, her curiosity piqued, she reached out again. Later, we sat on the plush rug in my room, bathed in the warm afternoon sun. I don’t know why, but I took her hand and gently pressed it against the left side of my chest. “Hope, feel this,” I said with a smile. “That’s a heartbeat.” Her small, cool hand rested there, perfectly still. After a moment, she took my hand and placed it over her own chest. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. A steady, powerful rhythm. Nothing like the fragile fluttering in my own chest. I froze. We shared the same blood, the same face. Our hearts even seemed to beat in the same rhythm. But mine was dying. And hers, so strong and full of life, was trapped in a world of darkness. I squeezed her hand, a sharp, sudden pain twisting in my gut. Those words that had echoed in my mind for years—Hope’s existence is meant to keep you alive—suddenly felt like a shard of glass, digging into me. In that moment, my resolve wavered. Was all my kindness, all my “goodness,” an act of salvation, or was it a slow, deliberate act of… murder?

2 The memories blurred into a swirling darkness, and through the chaos, I thought I heard voices. “It’s done,” a man’s calm voice said, laced with post-surgical fatigue. “A complete success,” another replied. The doctors. So… the surgery worked! I was alive! Hope’s heart was beating in my chest. The realization almost brought me to tears. But a split second later, a tidal wave of guilt crashed over me. Hope… it was Hope, the quiet girl who always followed me, the girl with the healthy heart, who had given it to me. What about her? Was she okay? I fought with every ounce of my consciousness to open my eyes, to get one last look at her on the operating table next to mine. But my eyelids felt like they were sealed shut, heavy and immovable. There was only darkness, and the voices, growing clearer. “Finally, we can breathe again.” That was Mom’s voice, from just outside the operating room door. “Yes,” Dad replied after a pause. “Eight years. It wasn’t for nothing.” A faint tremor went through me. Eight years… were they waiting for me to be saved? They must have been in agony all this time. Now, they could finally relax. I struggled to rise, focusing my will against the oppressive darkness. Light flooded in. I instinctively turned my head to the other operating table. Hope was lying there peacefully, her eyes wrapped in gauze, but her chest rose and fell with the gentle rhythm of her breathing. She… she was alive! Thank God, we both made it. A wave of bewildered relief washed over me. The doctors must have found another donor heart at the last minute. Heaven had smiled on us after all. “Hope…” I whispered, stumbling out of bed and moving towards her, needing to tell her I was sorry. I reached out, but my fingertips passed straight through the back of her hand, which was resting on the edge of the bed. No warmth. No substance. I looked down at my own hands, which had become faint and translucent, and finally understood. Turning back, I saw the operating table I had just left. A white sheet had been pulled over it, outlining the still form of a human body. I drifted closer and gently lifted the corner of the sheet. The “me” underneath had her eyes covered with clean white gauze, as if she were merely asleep. So… I didn’t make it through the surgery after all. I looked at my transparent hands, then at the bandages over Hope’s eyes. No, it couldn’t be. Mom and Dad loved me so much, they would never… But that phrase, “Eight years, it wasn’t for nothing,” now echoed in my mind with a chilling new meaning. The doors to the operating room swung open and a team of nurses came in, expertly maneuvering Hope’s gurney out into the hallway. I followed them, a silent, invisible shadow. My parents were waiting right outside. They rushed forward. Mom gently brushed the hair from Hope’s forehead. Dad leaned in, his voice low as he asked the doctor, “Will she… will she be able to see soon?” “The surgery was a complete success. Once she recovers, her vision will be perfectly restored.” Their faces broke into smiles of pure, unadulterated relief, the likes of which I had never seen in all my years. It was as if losing one daughter was a cause for celebration. My parents walked alongside the gurney, disappearing down the long, bright hospital corridor. Not once did either of them look back. I stood alone in the empty hallway, watching their silhouettes fade into the light. A pang of sadness hit me, but I was happy for them, too. Hope could finally see. It wouldn’t do to have my body around on such a joyous day. It would only bring bad luck. They could finally start a new life. No more worrying about their sickly daughter, no more anxiously counting down the days. A moment later, an orderly came in and turned the gurney holding my body in the other direction. “So young. Such a shame.” “I heard she donated her corneas to her sister.” The wheels of the gurney hummed softly as they rolled down the cold, sterile hallway, heading for the morgue. I see now. I wasn’t the one who received a heart. I was the one who gave my eyes. My death, in exchange for Hope’s light.

3 When I floated into the hospital room, Mom was gently dabbing Hope’s lips with a moistened cotton swab. Dad stood by the bed, his gaze locked on the gauze over Hope’s eyes. He had a look of intense focus I thought I recognized, but now realized I had never truly received. He was rarely home when I was growing up, and when he was, he usually kept to his study. He gave me anything I asked for; whatever I wanted would appear at my bedside the next day. I used to think he was just a serious man, that men didn’t know how to express their love. Because whenever he looked at me, there was always a subtle, impenetrable distance in his eyes. Now, watching him look at Hope, that distance was gone. A few days later, the bandages came off. Hope blinked, her new eyes adjusting to the light, and whispered, “Dad.” Just that one word, and my father’s eyes welled up with tears. He pulled her into a fierce hug, his shoulders trembling slightly. I had called him ‘Dad’ countless times. All I ever got in return was a restrained, polite smile. It wasn’t that he was incapable of emotion; he just wasn’t capable of feeling it for me. Back home, there was no memorial, not even a photograph. The family portrait above the fireplace was gone. The clay mugs I’d made for them, the slippers I’d bought—vanished. Every trace of my existence had been scrubbed away with a chilling, heartbreaking efficiency. Maybe it was for the best. This way, they wouldn’t have to look at my things and feel sad. People have to move on. “Welcome home.” Dad took Hope’s hand, his voice softer and warmer than I had ever heard it. He led her through every room, as if she were the true mistress of the house, finally returning. They stopped at the door to my old bedroom. It was completely empty. The walls were a stark, clinical white, freshly painted. “We’ll make this your art studio,” Mom said, her voice bright with anticipation. “You mentioned you wanted to learn how to paint.” Hope nodded softly. I remembered when Hope had first expressed an interest in painting. Mom had shut her down instantly, claiming there were “no spare rooms.” It wasn’t a lie, I realized. They were just waiting. Waiting for me to be gone. Waiting for Hope to see. But why would a blind girl be so obsessed with painting? The question surfaced, and I quickly pushed it down. She could see now. It was only natural she’d want to learn. As Mom gently stroked Hope’s hair, a hazy, fragmented memory flickered in my mind. It felt like a lifetime ago. Mom, stroking my hair just like that, humming a lullaby. But the name she was murmuring wasn’t Ava. What was it? A softer sound… something like… Grace? I shook my head, my spirit wavering. It had to be a hallucination. My name had always been Ava. Dad said they chose it hoping I would forget my illness and grow up healthy. Dad brought over a large art book and sat down beside Hope. “Look,” he said, his finger tracing over a page. “These are Monet’s Water Lilies. See how beautiful the colors are?” His eyes were full of a gentle adoration. I suddenly remembered the art book he’d given me for my last birthday. It was still sitting on the highest shelf of my bookcase, the wrapping untouched. “You have a weak constitution, Ava,” he’d said at the time. “You shouldn’t strain your eyes with things like this.” Looking back, he was right. A broken body like mine shouldn’t have dared to dream of such things. Hope looked up at him and asked quietly, “Would… would my sister have liked these paintings?” The air in the room instantly froze. The smiles on my parents’ faces hardened. “Don’t talk about her.” Mom’s voice was a whisper, but it landed like a hammer blow on my heart. “Your sister…” Dad began, then trailed off. He simply patted Hope’s head. “The most important thing right now is for your eyes to heal properly.” My heart ached, but I quickly pushed the feeling away. They were just worried that talking about me would upset Hope. Her recovery was fragile; she didn’t need any emotional distress. I watched the three of them sitting together in the sunlight, a perfect picture of family harmony. This was good. Hope could see, and my parents were finally free from the burden of caring for me. My sacrifice had been worth it. I just didn’t understand why my chest still hurt. My heart wasn’t even beating anymore.

4 I lingered in the house I had known for eighteen years, a ghost watching my former family build a new life without me. A noise from the living room drew my attention. I floated over to see Dad taping an eye chart to the wall. “Alright, Hope, let’s see how far down you can read,” he said, his voice brimming with hopeful encouragement. Mom stood nearby, her hands clasped together in nervous anticipation. Hope stepped forward and, without hesitation, read off the smallest line of symbols. “Oh, thank God!” Mom cried, pulling her into a tight embrace, her voice thick with emotion. “You can see clearly, you can see…” Dad’s face relaxed into a wide, relieved smile as he gently patted Hope’s back. I hovered in place, stunned. I remembered last year after my school physical, I’d proudly shown Dad my vision test results—perfect 20/20 vision. He’d barely glanced at it. “Protect your eyes,” he’d said dismissively. “Stop staring at your phone so much.” At the time, I thought he just wasn’t the type to give praise. But now, looking at him with Hope, I saw a completely different man. After dinner, Mom brought out a brand-new photo album. “Let’s sort through the old photos, Hope,” she said, her voice light and cheerful, full of the promise of a fresh start. “We need to make room for all the new memories we’re going to make.” I drifted closer to look. In the thick family album, every single photograph that had included me had been removed. The empty, plastic-covered slots were like gaping wounds, a silent mockery of my eighteen years of life. Nearby, Dad was clearing out the bookshelf. He stacked all my textbooks, my novels, even my award-winning essays into a pile, ready to be sold as scrap paper. He didn’t hesitate for a second. My academic awards were still tacked to the study wall. He reached up, ripped them down in one swift motion, crumpled them into a ball, and tossed them into a cardboard box at his feet. He moved with the casual efficiency of someone cleaning out old junk. Among them was my first-ever drawing from kindergarten. A crayon portrait of the three of us. I remember Dad had praised it, even had it framed. Now, it was just another piece of trash. Every single piece of evidence that I had ever existed was being systematically and ruthlessly erased. Except for one thing. A locked drawer in the study desk, a drawer that had remained shut for as long as I could remember, was left untouched. I stood right beside my father, watching him. He felt nothing. As he reached for the top shelf, a dusty, unfamiliar photo album I’d never seen before slipped and fell to the floor. It flipped open to a page with pictures of two babies in identical christening gowns. Underneath each photo, a name was written in elegant cursive. One read: “Grace, 100 Days.” The other: “Lily, 100 Days.” I stared at the names, frozen. Grace? Lily? The unfamiliar names sent a strange, sharp pang through me. Dad walked over, picked up the album without a second glance, and tossed it into the box of discards. “Just some useless old photos,” he said, more to himself than to anyone else. Later, Mom went to the kitchen to prepare Hope’s bedtime milk. She opened the highest cabinet and took down the familiar white bottle—the “imported heart medication” I had taken for eight years straight. “Does she still need to take this?” Dad asked, walking into the kitchen. “The doctor said to continue for a while longer to be safe.” Mom expertly crushed two pills into a fine powder and stirred them into the warm milk. “It’s good for her eyes’ recovery.” I was paralyzed. Good for her eyes? As Mom carried the glass of milk out of the kitchen, a curled corner of the label on the pill bottle snagged and peeled away, fluttering to the floor. I instinctively floated closer, my non-existent heart freezing as I read the original name hidden beneath the fake one. Corneal Preservation Solution. And in smaller print: For maintaining corneal viability and preventing tissue necrosis. The weight of the truth was so immense it felt like it could crush my very soul. For eight years, the pills I’d taken every single day weren’t to keep me alive. They were to keep my eyes perfectly preserved for someone else.