Before Ethan Miller was born, I was the little treasure that Mary Miller held in her hands, afraid I might slip away, and cherished in her mouth, afraid I might melt.
Just because I accidentally fell off the couch while playing, Mary covered the entire house with soft carpets.
Later, when I fell in love with swinging, she set up a small swing set on our balcony just for me.
Mary told me:
“Sophie Miller, remember this—no matter where or when, Mom will always love you.”
So, even after Ethan was born, I never doubted whether Mary’s love for me would change.
Until Ethan was diagnosed with kidney failure. The mother who once cherished me beyond measure gripped my arm with a twisted face.
“Give your kidney to your brother, will you? He’s still so little—I can’t live without him.”
Thinking of how good she had been to me, I nodded through tears. I believed that as long as I gave my kidney to Ethan, the mother who once loved me would return.
But when the doctor said my condition was poor and warned her to prepare herself, she only asked:
“Doctor, I just want to know—how is my son?”
My eyelids felt as heavy as lead, my incision ached faintly, but the pain in my chest was worse.
Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes. I remembered how, when I was wheeled into the Operating Room, Mary held Ethan’s hand, soothing him again and again:
“Sweetheart, it’s okay, the surgery will be quick and painless. Once you’re better, Mommy will take you to the Amusement Park.”
From the other bed, I forced my eyes wide open, greedily watching the scene.
Ethan had been born five years ago. At first, Mary told me his birth was just an accident, that her love for me would never lessen because of him.
I believed her, but I couldn’t ignore the joy in her eyes when she looked at him.
Mary had many siblings, and because her parents could never treat each child fairly, she insisted after marriage that she would only have one child.
“What’s wrong with a daughter? Who says only boys can carry on the family name? A daughter can do the same.”
More than once, I thought—if only I had been born a boy.
When I was born, my grandparents were disappointed and repeatedly urged Mary to have another child. But she stood firm, and their resentment extended to me.
David Miller and Mary argued many times over children, but she never gave in. Whenever I felt guilty, Mary would hold me gently and soothe me:
“Sophie, you are all I need.”
So when Ethan was finally born, I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking no one could ever use this issue to hurt her again.
But day by day, Mary became increasingly partial. Her gaze fell more and more on Ethan, while what belonged to me grew smaller and smaller.
Until Ethan developed kidney failure.
I didn’t know it then. One day, I came home to find the house empty. I sat on the swing reading when I heard commotion in the hallway. The door opened, and Mary entered, clutching Ethan with red-rimmed eyes.
We locked eyes. My heart skipped.
“Mom, what happened?”
Mary suddenly rushed forward and slapped me across the face. I froze in place.
“Your brother is like this, and you still have the mood to swing? How did I give birth to such a cruel daughter!”
She roared, grabbing scissors and hacking at the swing ropes. I cried out, trying to stop her.
“Mom, don’t… Mom!”
The noise woke Ethan in her arms. He began wailing. Mary’s grip loosened, and the scissors dropped onto my foot, cutting a bloody hole.
