My mother is a doctor with Doctors Without Borders. When I was in an accident with her colleague's daughter, she chose to operate on her adopted child first. But when I woke up, my memory was gone. I was sixteen again, back in the year my parents had just returned from a war zone. 1. "Ava, just hold on. We're at your mom's hospital. She'll save you, I promise." My consciousness was fading, the world blurring at the edges. My aunt's frantic, desperate voice was the only thing anchoring me. A flicker of hope sparked within me. My mother was a renowned surgeon, a hero who had saved countless lives on the front lines. She had a reputation to uphold. But a moment later, Mila, who had arrived after me, grabbed a nurse's arm and shrieked, "Dr. Evelyn Reed is my mother! Tell her I'm here! I hit my head, and my eyes… my eyes really hurt! I think I might be going blind!" A chill washed over me. Mila had been in the same car crash, but her injuries were nothing compared to mine. Still, competing for my mother's affection had become her favorite pastime since she'd moved in with us. Every single time, I had lost. But my mother was a doctor. She'd always said that in her hospital, patients were patients. It didn't matter who you were; the only thing that mattered was the severity of the injury. The one closest to death always came first. I didn't want to die. A sliver of hope remained. She has to save me first. But the moment my mother saw Mila, her face hardened with decision. "Get her to an OR, now!" My aunt rushed forward, grabbing her arm. "Evelyn, look at Ava! She's so hurt she can't even speak! Please, just look at her!" At my aunt's plea, my mother finally turned her gaze toward my gurney. She saw a face caked in blood, a body broken and still. Even a layman could tell who was in more danger—the pristine, barely scratched Mila, or me. Ten seconds stretched into an eternity. My mother took a deep, steadying breath. "Mila's eyes were injured in a conflict zone. I can't risk it. Another doctor can handle Ava. It's the same." A single tear escaped the corner of my eye as the world went black. The last thing I heard was my aunt's choked sob. "The way you treat her… one day, you'll regret this until your dying day." 2. The world plunged into darkness. I felt like I was a child again, back in the small town where I lived with my grandmother. She was a bitter old woman who saw favorites, and I wasn't one of them. Every day, she called me a burden, dead weight. She dressed me in my cousin's old, baggy hand-me-downs and kept my hair cropped short like a boy's. I was never allowed to eat at the table. I could only watch with hungry eyes as my younger cousin devoured all the snacks. By the time I was six, I was helping my grandmother cook, standing on a small stool to reach the stove. One day, my cousin, in a fit of mischief, kicked the stool out from under me. I fell hard, my forehead splitting open and a blistering red burn spreading across my arm. I staggered to my feet, the pain so intense that I fainted. When I woke up, I was being held in a pair of gentle arms. It was my mother. She had a unique scent, a mix of something sweet and the faint, clean smell of antiseptic. It was the first time in my memory that I had ever seen my parents. She carefully cleaned and dressed my wounds, murmuring apologies for all the years she'd been away. My father, seeing my filthy clothes, exploded at my grandmother, accusing her of using the money he sent for me to support my uncle's family instead. It was only then that I realized I wasn't an orphan. I had accomplished, important parents. My mother was a doctor with Doctors Without Borders, saving lives. My father was the first from our town to go to college and was now working overseas for Greenpeace, tackling global issues. But they had more important things to do than raise me. My father gave my grandmother a thick wad of cash, telling her to take better care of me. My mother wiped away tears as she packed her bags again. "We had to come back in such a rush," she said, her voice thick with regret. "Ava's burn is going to scar. We'll have to wait until she's older to fix it." She told me about the sacred duty of saving others, planting a seed in my young mind. "Ava, when you grow up, you'll understand why Mommy had to do this." 3. Maybe I was born to be understanding. I took my mother's words to heart and strived to be the perfect daughter. I threw myself into my studies, determined to follow in my father's footsteps and claw my way out of that small town. My grandmother grumbled constantly, saying it was a waste for a girl to get so much education. She loaded me with chores, even making me wash my cousins' underwear. I tried to call my parents, to tell them what was happening, but they were always busy, their phones often unreachable. Finally, New Year's Eve arrived. I assumed the whole world celebrated. I borrowed the village chief's phone and dialed their number. My father's voice was weary. "Ava, you're already a guest in your grandmother's house. It's not too much to ask for you to help with some chores." A sour feeling churned in my stomach. I wanted to tell him that my grandmother refused to buy me the textbooks I needed, but then I heard my mother's voice in the background. "David, come look at Mila's drawing. Don't you think Mr. Roberts will be pleased?" Then, a little girl's cheerful voice. "Daddy, I'm going to get an A on this assignment, right?" The line went dead. Was that my parents' new daughter? Had they replaced me? Tears streamed down my face, hot and unstoppable. 4. I dragged myself back to my grandmother's house and collapsed into bed. She beat me for not helping with dinner, screaming that I was ungrateful. I developed a high fever that turned into pneumonia, but she refused to take me to a doctor. My Aunt Clara heard about it when she was visiting a neighboring village for the holidays. Heartbroken, she rescued me from my grandmother's house and took me in. She assured me the girl on the phone was the daughter of my mother's colleague, a doctor who had been killed in the line of duty. His wife had passed away from an illness years before, so my parents had adopted the girl, Mila. I naively thought that the daughter of such a kind man must be a wonderful person. I couldn't have been more wrong. When I was sixteen, my parents decided to move back to the States permanently to give Mila a better education. They bought a house in the city and brought me from my aunt's to live with them. I was reluctant to go, but my uncle resented my aunt for not having children and for spending money on me. Fearing I was a burden, and clinging to a desperate hope for my own parents' love, I tried my best to fit into their family of three. My father bought a three-bedroom house. They gave me the smallest room, which was already cluttered with Mila's piano and her overflowing wardrobe of beautiful dresses. "Mila has claustrophobia," my mother explained. "She can't be in a small space. You'll have to let her have the bigger room." But Mila would practice the piano whenever I tried to study, deliberately hitting wrong notes that made my head throb. One winter, my mother bought a box of expensive, imported cherries. Mila and I both loved them. I took one, and she immediately snatched the rest of the box and locked it in her room. I was about to tell her to share, to at least leave some for our parents, when my mother snapped at me. "Mila was with us while we were dodging bullets, while you were safe and sound here. How dare you fight with her over a single cherry?" I was lectured for being petty and selfish. To soothe Mila, my father brought home a box of gourmet sea urchins, just for her. "Mila's father was a hero," he told me earnestly. "A hero's child deserves to be treated with kindness." But my parents were heroes, too. So why had my entire life been filled with nothing but suffering? It took me a long time to understand. Not all parents love their children, especially one they didn't raise. And I wasn't a daughter they could be proud of. I had to fight tooth and nail just to get into a decent public high school, while they paid a hefty donation each year to send Mila to a prestigious private academy. Their friends and colleagues all praised them for their kindness and generosity. 5. I slowly opened my eyes. My aunt's face swam into view, her eyes red and puffy from crying, with dark circles underneath. "Ava, you're finally awake! You scared me half to death." She told me I had a severe skull fracture and had lost a dangerous amount of blood. She'd been staring at the door, hoping someone would show up. Seeing me lying there quietly, she quickly added, "Your father is out of town on business, but he's on his way back. Your mother is just swamped with work. She'll be here as soon as she's free." Before I could respond, I overheard two nurses talking in the hallway. "That girl in the VIP room… she must be Dr. Reed's real daughter, right?" "Definitely! A mother knows her own. The girl looked like she only had scrapes, but Dr. Reed was so worried she ran a whole battery of tests on her personally. Right now, she's in there telling her to get off her phone and rest." My aunt, afraid I'd be upset, quickly explained, "Your mother is just worried Mila might have a concussion. Don't overthink it." I looked at her, my expression one of pure confusion. "Isn't my mother overseas? And… who's Mila?" The apple in my aunt's hand slipped from her grasp and rolled across the floor. Soon, the surgeon who had operated on me came to check my condition. After a thorough examination, he confirmed it. I had amnesia. My memory had reverted to before my parents returned to the country. My mother arrived an hour later. I looked up at her, my gaze calm and empty. There was nothing in my eyes but the cool distance one reserves for a stranger. She saw the thick white bandages wrapped around my head, and a flicker of panic entered her voice. "Ava… do you know who I am?" I studied her as if she were a complete stranger. "Are you a doctor here?" She walked stiffly to my bedside. "I'm your mother!" I lowered my eyes. "I don't remember," I said softly. "As I recall, I only met my mother once, when I was six. I remember growing up in a small town, and then my aunt took care of me. To me, Aunt Clara is my mother." My own mother stared at me with an expression of pure disbelief. I could see the anger simmering beneath the surface. The truth was, I hadn't lost my memory. When I was sixteen, seeing my parents for the first time in years had filled me with a desperate, hopeful joy. I was terrified they wouldn't love me. I had cried and told them how much I'd missed them. But now, I was done pretending. I was done with this hollow imitation of a family. This time, I would be the one to sever the ties. 6. My mother refused to believe I'd forgotten her. She demanded test after test, but you can't force memories into someone who is determined to forget. She was destined for disappointment. No matter how many times she asked, my answer was always the same: "I don't remember you." Finally, her hands clenched into tight fists, and she stormed out of the room. That night, Mila sauntered in to gloat. "I just had a few scratches, and Mommy was so worried she pulled strings to get me a VIP room," she sneered. "Stuck in a six-person ward, Ava, isn't it noisy?" "Are you auditioning for the role of my warden? Where I stay is none of your business." She was clearly shocked that the normally submissive me would talk back. She stepped forward, reaching for the bandage on my head. I wasn't an idiot. I kicked out, sending her sprawling to the floor. She burst into tears. "I was just trying to adjust your pillow! Why did you kick me?" "Some people lose weight by exercising," I said sweetly. "Did you decide to start with your brain cells? I'm covered in injuries and can barely move, and you come at my head. Did you expect me to just lie here and take it?" My mother, who had just entered, saw the scene, and her face darkened. "Ava, Mila is your sister! How could you hurt her?" "Mommy," Mila sobbed, "she must be angry that you saved me first. She's taking it out on me." She turned to me, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Ava, Mom works so hard at the hospital. Can't you just be a little more understanding and not cause her any more trouble?" My face was a mask of calm. "Could you two please stop performing this touching mother-daughter drama in front of me? I have no idea who you are. Why would I waste my energy on strangers?" My mother stared at me, her face turning a pale shade of green. "Ava, I am your mother. How dare you speak to me with that tone?" The old me never would have. I was always the good, obedient daughter, desperate for her and my father's approval, swallowing every injustice without complaint. But now? Now I had amnesia. I didn't care who she was. I pulled the covers up to my chin and lay down, pointedly ignoring them. My mother looked like she was about to explode, but she saw the other patients in the ward staring. It was like punching a pillow; she was left fuming, with nowhere to direct her anger. 7. When my father arrived at the hospital, he was carrying a large box of cherries. Mila's face lit up. "Thank you, Daddy!" she chirped, taking the box. My father turned to me, his voice carrying its usual tone of gentle persuasion. "Ava, you're the older sister. Let Mila have them, okay?" He knew that once Mila started on a box of cherries, she wouldn't stop until they were gone. And she never shared. My gaze was cold, wary. "I don't care. I don't know you people, and I'm not eating anything you brought." The color drained from my father's face. In the past, no matter how unfairly I was treated at home, my eyes would still betray my desperate longing for their approval, for a single word of fairness. But now, he saw nothing in my eyes but a flat, empty calm. It was as if his own daughter saw him as nothing more than a distant, irrelevant relative. Someone she'd met once, but couldn't quite place. His expression was a wall that screamed, Stay away from me. He looked defeated. "Ava, you used to admire your mother and me so much. How could losing a few years of memories turn us into strangers?" To the outside world, they were heroes. One cared for the entire planet's climate; the other braved war zones to heal the sick and adopted her fallen comrade's daughter. I had once been so proud of them. After we were reunited, I had showered them with the affection of a long-lost child, and they had basked in it. My current behavior was completely beyond his comprehension. "Ava," he said, his voice filled with anguish. "How could you forget your own father?" 8. During my hospital stay, my father visited often. He searched the house for old photos, trying to spark my memory, but he couldn't find a single picture of me with them. All he found were countless family portraits of him, my mother, and Mila at the zoo, at amusement parks, at pop concerts. I was never there. Unwilling to give up, he brought me a bouquet of pink roses. Mila's favorite. When Aunt Clara arrived with a thermos of pork rib soup, she saw the flowers and immediately threw them in the trash. "David, have you completely forgotten that your own daughter is allergic to pollen?" My father froze. In my sophomore year of high school, Mila was preparing for a piano competition. She knew perfectly well I had a severe pollen allergy, but she deliberately paraded around the house with a bouquet of flowers my father had given her, waving them in my face. I broke out in hives. My mother saw it happening, but she didn't want to disrupt Mila's competition preparations. She told me to just endure it, that allergies were a minor thing. I felt like I was suffocating. I called Aunt Clara, who rushed over immediately. The doctor said if she'd been any later, it could have been critical. Aunt Clara called to confront Mila, but my mother defended her. "Ava knows she's allergic. She shouldn't have tried to take Mila's flowers. She brought this on herself." My aunt was so angry she started to cry. "Evelyn, you're so biased it's sickening! You believe every word Mila says and won't even listen to Ava!" "Mila grew up by my side. I know what kind of person she is," my mother had retorted. "Ava was corrupted by that grandmother and uncle of hers. She lies as easily as she breathes." My father, not wanting his precious Mila to be wrongly accused, checked the security camera footage when he got home. He saw Mila sprinkling pollen on my pillow and in my food, causing the severe reaction. But he never said a word. From that day on, though, he was just a little bit nicer to me. 9. My father's face was flushed with embarrassment. "Ava, I… I forgot about your allergy." I didn't respond. I just sat on the hospital bed and offered him a tight, sarcastic smile. The police arrived. Their investigation suggested the car crash was suspicious. The car had suddenly swerved off the road and hit a traffic light pole. At the time, only Mila and I were in the vehicle. The dashcam was destroyed, and there was no CCTV footage of the car's interior. Suddenly, Mila spoke up, her voice clear and confident. "I remember now! Ava was arguing with me in the car. She grabbed the steering wheel, and that's what caused the crash." My mother immediately backed her up. "That's right! Ava has always had a terrible temper. She's prone to fits and always bullies Mila." The officer asked Mila why she was only saying this now. She hid behind my mother. "Ava was hurt so badly… I didn't want to make things worse for her. I was afraid it would upset Mom and Dad." My mother gave her a look of profound approval before glaring at me. I lowered my eyes. "Officer, I'm sorry. I have amnesia and can't recall the specifics of that day. But I can assure you, I am not a hot-tempered or impulsive person." Aunt Clara stepped forward. "Ava is an excellent driver and has a very calm demeanor. Even if they were arguing, she would never jeopardize her own life or the lives of others." With two conflicting stories, the police had to continue their investigation. My father approached the officer. "Officer, this is a private family matter. Both my daughters are fine. Can't we just let this go?" I knew he had figured it out. Mila was blinking rapidly, her tell-tale sign when she was lying. He used to think it was a cute, quirky habit. But for the sake of the daughter he had raised, he chose to protect her. Mila looked triumphant, smugly satisfied with her own lie. I gave my father a single, level look. He couldn't meet my gaze.
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