One Cry of Pain, and My Parents Stopped Loving Me

1 After I was diagnosed with a severe bleeding disorder, I became our family’s “glass princess.” The doctors said I wouldn’t live past five. So my parents put me first in everything, even spending their life savings on my treatments. On my fifth birthday, for the first time in a long time, there was laughter in our house. Only my little sister, Poppy, asked with innocent confusion, “Willow, are you going to die tomorrow?” That was the first time Dad ever hit her. And Mom knelt beside her, praying to God, begging for just a few more years for me. But on the day of Poppy’s first day of kindergarten, all I said was that my chest hurt a little. Suddenly, my mother broke down, her hand cracking across my face. “Why are you so cruel? Do you have to ruin everything for your sister?” “Our entire world revolves around you! Can’t we have one single day to take your sister to school?” “If you want to die, then just die! Stop torturing us!” She hurled my pill bottles at me, grabbed Poppy’s hand, and slammed the door behind them. I didn’t say anything. I just stared at the cut on my arm, at the blood that wouldn’t stop, as my body grew colder and colder. … When the glass shattered, I’d instinctively raised my arm to shield my face. I stared at the gash for a couple of seconds before I remembered the doctor’s words: “Sweetheart, you can never, ever get a cut. If you do, the bleeding might not stop.” I rushed to find a Band-Aid and pressed it on. It was soaked through in less than thirty seconds. I turned to get a bandage, but blood was already dripping onto the floor. Mom loves a clean house. I couldn’t make another mess for her. I frantically used my sleeve to wipe it up, but the blood just smeared across the tiles, blooming like a terrible flower. I grabbed the nearest towel and wrapped it tightly around my arm. A chill began to set in, starting in my fingertips and seeping deep into my bones. I went into the bathroom and filled the tub with hot water. Lying back in the warmth, I finally felt a little bit of relief. The blood was still flowing, staining the water a pale red. I suddenly missed my parents so much. I used my smartwatch to call my dad. It rang and rang. No answer. I tried my mom. It was loud on her end. Music, the laughter of children. A world of celebration that felt a million miles away from mine. “What is it? Hurry up, it’s almost Poppy’s turn to perform.” “Mom, I don’t feel so good. I’m bleeding…” Her voice, sharp with impatience, cut through the phone. “You don’t feel well again?” “Is it that you’re never well unless the entire world is revolving around you?” “Willow, you’re eight years old. You’re a big girl. Can’t you be a little more considerate for once?” The next second, the line went dead, the dial tone echoing in the empty bathroom. I watched the water slowly deepen to crimson and felt a sudden urge to cry. Mom was right. I was always causing trouble for everyone. My sickness was trouble, my sadness was trouble, and now my bleeding was trouble. Mom’s knitted cardigan was draped over the side of the tub. I gently pulled it over my face, inhaling her familiar jasmine scent. It was like when I was little, and she’d sat by my bed just like this when I had a fever. The water was growing cold. The bleeding seemed to be slowing down. It must be almost all gone. As my head started to feel fuzzy, I wondered, if all my blood runs out, will I finally be okay? Mom and Dad wouldn’t have to worry about their sick daughter anymore. My sister wouldn’t have to give up everything for me. And I wouldn’t have to pretend to be strong anymore, wouldn’t have to bite down on my own hand to keep from crying out in pain in the middle of the night. I curled up in the tub, feeling as safe as I must have in my mother’s womb before I was born.

2 When I opened my eyes again, I was looking down at my own small, pale body floating in the tub. So, I was dead. I heard the front door open, followed by my sister’s cheerful voice. “Willow, I’m home!” I rushed out to see them. Mom and Dad were back, holding Poppy’s hands. Dad was carrying a strawberry cake. He stopped short when he saw the mess in the living room. “What happened here?” Mom’s brow furrowed. “She threw a tantrum this morning. She lied about being sick because she was mad I was taking Poppy to school.” Dad’s face darkened. “She’s getting more and more inconsiderate.” I tried to explain, waving my hands frantically in front of them. “No, that’s not it! Willow wasn’t trying to make you mad!” But my hands passed right through my father’s shoulder. They didn’t notice a thing. Poppy pulled her hand free from Mom’s and ran to my bedroom door. She knocked softly. “Willow, come out and have some cake.” Silence. She looked up at them. “Is Willow asleep?” I floated over and hugged her. “Thank you, Poppy.” Mom’s voice was hard. “She’s not asleep. She’s ignoring us on purpose. Leave her. We’ll eat first.” Dad set the cake on the dining table. Poppy stared at it, her voice small. “But I want to wait for Willow…” Dad opened the box, exchanging a look with Mom. “If only Willow were half as thoughtful as her sister, our lives would be so much easier.” He stuck five candles in the cake and lit them. Poppy was lifted onto a chair, and as her parents watched, she blew them out. Today was also her fifth birthday. Mom asked gently, “Did you make a wish, Poppy?” Poppy’s eyes sparkled. “I did. I wished that Willow…” Dad smiled and stroked her hair. “Shh. If you say it out loud, it won’t come true.” I watched from the side, a silent observer. On my birthdays, the house always smelled of medicine. The number of candles on the cake felt more like a countdown. But Poppy’s birthday finally looked like a real birthday. When it was time to cut the cake, Poppy insisted on the biggest piece. “This one is for Willow!” She carried the plate to my bedroom door and knocked again. “Willow, come have some strawberry cake with me!” Still no response. The smile on Poppy’s face slowly faded. She carried the plate back to the table. “Willow won’t answer me,” she said quietly. Suddenly, Dad reached out and snatched the plate from her hands. He threw the whole thing, the perfectly frosted slice of strawberry cake, into the trash can. He slammed his hand on the table. “Fine, then she can have nothing! Nobody is to call for her again. A few missed meals will teach her a lesson.” Poppy was so startled, her eyes instantly filled with tears. Mom pulled her into her arms, glaring at Dad. “Why are you yelling at her?” Then she spoke softly to Poppy. “It’s okay, sweetie. We’ll eat first. When your sister realizes she was wrong, she’ll come out on her own.” I knelt by the trash can, looking at the discarded cake. The strawberry on top was still so fresh, now nestled among used tissues. What a waste. Strawberry was my favorite. Poppy ate her own small slice, her eyes darting toward my door every few seconds. My parents ate in a heavy silence. There were supposed to be four of us at the table. Now, one chair was empty. I sat down in it and whispered to my sister, “Happy birthday.”

3 That evening, Mom gave Poppy a bath. I stood in front of the shower curtain, my heart twisting into a knot, terrified she would pull it back and see me in the tub. Through the steam, Mom lathered soap on Poppy’s back. Poppy looked up, her wet hair stuck to her forehead. “Mommy, why hasn’t Willow come out yet?” Mom’s hands paused for a moment. “She’s probably sleeping.” “But I miss her,” Poppy said in a small voice. “I haven’t seen her all day.” Mom turned off the water, wrapped Poppy in a big towel, and hugged her close. “Poppy, do you ever get mad at Mommy and Daddy?” “Mad about what?” Mom held her a little tighter. “That we’re always focused on Willow. That we give her the best of everything. That sometimes… we don’t have enough time for you.” Poppy wrapped her small, damp arms around her mother’s neck. “No, of course not. Because Willow is sick.” Her voice was serious. “My teacher said today that sick people need the most care. Me and Mommy and Daddy have to love her together.” My mother’s shoulders trembled slightly. She buried her face in Poppy’s towel and didn’t speak for a long time. “You’re such a good girl, Poppy.” Her voice was muffled. “The truth is, your sister has had a very hard life.” I pressed myself against the cold tiles as my mother continued. “She was born very weak. The doctors said she might not grow up.” Mom sniffled. “So we were always scared she was in pain, scared she was sad. We just wanted to give her everything we could.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But sometimes… Mommy gets tired, too. Sometimes I wish she were healthier. I wish I had more time to spend with you.” Poppy listened, not quite understanding, and patted her mother’s back with her small hand. I crouched in the corner, transparent tears streaming down my face. I’m sorry, Mom. I was the one who wasn’t considerate. If I had never existed, how much better your lives would have been with just Poppy. But they couldn’t hear me. After the bath, Mom tucked Poppy into bed. Then, she walked to my bedroom door and stood there for a long time. Finally, she raised her hand and knocked softly. “Willow? Are you asleep?” I floated in front of her, wanting to reach out and touch her, but my fingertips passed through empty air. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you today, Willow. I was wrong. It was Poppy’s first day of school, and I was just so nervous. I didn’t mean to be harsh.” She paused, as if waiting for a reply that would never come. She sighed. “I left some cake for you in the living room. It’s your favorite, strawberry. Make sure you eat it.” She waited another few seconds before returning to her room and closing the door. I went to the living room. On the table was a small plate with a slice of cake. The strawberry on top was a little crooked. Late into the night, I watched my own small body in the tub. The water was cold now, my face as white as paper. My mother never opened the shower curtain. She didn’t know that I would never eat the cake she left for me. And that I would never hear her apology.