Disowned

My parents beamed at me. "How would you like a baby brother?" they asked. I clutched my ragged stuffed rabbit and shook my head with all the solemnity a four-year-old could muster. "No." They laughed, ruffling my hair as if my words were meaningless. A year later, they returned with a plump baby boy—my "playmate," my "protector," my so-called safety net. But adulthood never came. When Dick developed leukemia, I was strapped to cold steel tables as needles plunged into my bones. When his kidneys failed, my mother signed the consent form for my "voluntary" donation—ignoring my pleas about my blood disorder. I bled to death on that table. When I awoke, I was four again. My mother knelt before me, her face glowing with that same maternal joy. "Kerrie, sweetie," she cooed, "Mommy has a little secret in her tummy. A baby brother for you. Wouldn't you like a brother to play with?" In her hands, she held two shiny new action figures. In the corner of the room stood a brand-new, baby-blue crib. I looked down at my own chubby hands, clutching the same faded pink rabbit. I was back. This time, I would not be his living blood bank. I would not be held captive by the illusion of their love. My father knelt beside her, his voice a warm, guiding whisper. "Honey, you're always scared to sleep alone, aren't you? With a little brother in the house, you'll never be lonely again." He’d said the exact same thing in my last life. But after Dick was born, I had never been more alone. The bedtime stories stopped. I was no longer lifted onto my father's lap. Overnight, I became invisible. I was told to be mature, to be responsible, to take care of my brother. I was five years old. They expected a five-year-old to shed all jealousy and resentment and devote herself to a creature that hadn't even been born. Back then, I’d felt a vague sense of loss. I’d tearfully told them I wanted to be their only baby forever. My mother's face had contorted with rage. "I knew it! Girls are so jealous! First, you try to steal your father from me, and now you want to steal everything from your brother before he's even here!" I hadn't understood, I only knew she was angry. I’d sobbed that I was sorry, that I did want a brother. Her smile returned, but later, I heard her whisper to my father, "I saw on the news that an eight-year-old pushed her pregnant mother down the stairs. Who knows what this one might do in a fit of jealousy? We should send her to your parents' place in the country. Just until after the baby is born." They named him Dick. A name that meant legacy, succession. Everything would be his. The memories flickered through my mind, and my expression darkened. My mother, thinking I was just confused, took my hand and placed it on her still-flat stomach. "There's a tiny new life in here, Kerrie. Maybe a brother, maybe a sister. Aren't you excited?" My father joined her side. "One daughter is enough," he joked. "I'm hoping for a boy. Someone to protect our little Kerrie when she's older." I’d fallen for that line before. I’d been so excited. But the Dick I got was a monster who threw toys at my head and shredded my only Barbie doll with scissors. When I complained, they’d always say the same thing: "But you're the one who wanted a brother to play with, remember? He's just a baby, Kerrie. He doesn't know any better. You have to be patient with him." They used that excuse to gaslight me through my entire childhood, right up until the moment they used it to justify taking my life. So this time, I pointed a small, steady finger at the new baby furniture and toys filling our home. "You've already decided to have him," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "Why are you asking me?" For a moment, they were speechless, their smiles frozen in an awkward tableau. I turned without another word, clutching my worn-out rabbit, and walked upstairs. There was a large, bright room up there that had always been kept empty. It was for "guests," they’d said. I finally understood it was for him. I went into my own small, cramped room and the tears finally came. I had spent a lifetime bending over backward for them, enduring unimaginable pain, and they still saw it as nothing more than my duty. Whenever I cried from the pain of the needles, hoping for a word of comfort, my mother would just scold me. "You're the one who said you wanted a brother! Why else would I have had a second child? Now he's here, and you refuse to take responsibility for him?" My hands clenched into tight fists. I had to get out of this hellhole. I spent a long time thinking, and the conclusion was inescapable: my parents did not love me. My entire upbringing was a lesson in being quiet, frugal, and obedient. I was never to be demanding. The only time I ever broke that rule was when I was three, when I cried for the stuffed rabbit. My mother had slapped me across the face, right there in the street, and left me sobbing in front of the market stall. I cried for hours until my father finally came back and bought it for me. "Mommy doesn't have a job because she stays home to take care of you," he’d said, his voice heavy with meaning. "I have to support this whole family by myself. The money for this rabbit could have bought us a proper steak dinner. Don't be mad at your mother. She just wants you to be a good, sensible girl." I was three. I thought we were destitute. I apologized to my mother profusely, promising never to ask for a toy again. But my mother’s dresses cost hundreds of dollars. My father smoked expensive imported cigarettes every day. When Dick was born, he got new toys every month. The ten dollars for my rabbit wouldn't have broken them. They just couldn't bear to spend money—or love—on me. Sure enough, the next morning, my mother knocked on my door. "Kerrie," she said, feigning exhaustion, "Mommy's not feeling well with the baby in my tummy. I can't take good care of you right now. Would you like to go stay with Grandma and Grandpa for a few days?" I stared at her, my eyes cold. "Is it really just for a few days?" My directness made her falter, but she recovered quickly. "Of course, sweetie. As soon as Mommy feels better, we'll come get you." I didn't spare her another glance. I grabbed my little backpack, stuffed my few items of clothing and my rabbit inside. "Let's go." It was her idea, but as I got in the car, she began to cry. "Let your father drive you. It hurts too much to watch you leave." Anyone watching would have thought she was the most loving mother in the world. In reality, it was guilt. A "few days" was going to be at least a year. The car left the smooth highway for a winding, remote mountain road. The familiar, dilapidated village came into view. "Be a good girl for your grandparents," my father said sternly. "Help out where you can. Don't be selfish. And call me if you need anything." He strapped a kid's smartwatch to my wrist. I stared at it. "Will you actually answer?" I asked. He looked confused. "Of course I will. Why wouldn't I answer my little Kerrie's call?" He smiled. "Don't worry. Even with a new baby, you'll always be my favorite. You just be good here, and I'll be back to get you before you know it." Liar. In my last life, my uncle's son bullied me relentlessly, calling me a worthless burden nobody wanted. I called my father, sobbing. He said he was busy at work and hung up. I called five times that first month. He answered twice, for less than ten seconds each time. By the second month, he "forgot" to pay for the watch's service plan, and the calls wouldn't go through at all. I thought I had broken it. I hid in a corner and cried, blaming myself, praying they would come for me soon. It was a year and a half before my uncle, on a trip into the city, finally brought me home. The moment I stepped through the door, my mother recoiled, pinching her nose. "Kerrie, you smell like a barn! Don't they have showers in the country?" At six years old, I was mortified, hiding my face in shame. Compared to the pale, chubby Dick, I was a skinny, sallow little monkey after a year in the sun. It was true, I wasn't very lovable. But wasn’t she the one who sent me there in the first place? The first day at my grandparents', my aunt was furious. "It's bad enough their own parents won't raise them, now they dump a little girl on us!" My uncle gave me a silent, weary look and went back inside. I squatted under the eaves of their small house with my backpack, drawing pictures in the dirt. They didn’t like me, but my father sent them money every month. They wouldn't starve me or let me freeze. This time, I wouldn't cry for parents who would never come. I would take care of myself and build the strength to escape them for good. My grandparents came home from the fields at sunset. They didn't recognize me at first. "Grandpa, Grandma," I said, walking up to them. "It's me, Kerrie. I've come to stay with you." Grandma immediately pulled me into a warm, loving hug. Grandpa's face broke into a huge grin, and he ushered me inside for cookies. That night, as I lay on a cool straw mat, Grandma fanned me to sleep while Grandpa watched from the doorway, sighing heavily. Tears slid from the corners of my eyes. I swore I would repay their kindness. I would not let them die so tragically this time.

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