Five. They expected a five-year-old to swallow every ounce of jealousy, every flicker of hurt, and devote himself entirely to a screaming lump of flesh that hadn't even been born yet.

Back then, I'd felt it, dim and wordless, the sense that something was about to be taken from me. I was terrified. So I told Mom and Dad that I wanted to be their only baby forever.

Mom's face twisted. She jabbed a finger at me and screamed, "I always knew you were the jealous type! You can't even tolerate your own brother!"

I didn't understand what she meant. All I knew was that she was angry.

So I sobbed and told her I was sorry. I said I was wrong. I said I wanted a little brother to play with.

Only then did she smile. But later that night, she whispered to Dad when she thought I couldn't hear: "I saw a story online about an eight-year-old boy who pushed his pregnant mother down the stairs. Who knows if that little brat would snap and come after me? I think we should send him back to the countryside. We can deal with him after Lucius Galloway is born."

Lucius. They'd already picked out his name before he even existed. Lucius, meaning legacy, inheritance, everything the family had would one day be his.

The memories kept flooding back, one after another. My gaze darkened.

Mom must have thought I didn't understand. She took my hand and pressed it against her belly.

"There's a tiny little life growing inside Mommy right now. It might be a brother, or it might be a sister. Aren't you excited?"

Dad walked over and put his arm around her, grinning. "One son is more than enough for me. I'm hoping for a girl, actually. That way our little Desi will have someone to play with."

He'd said that in my last life too. And I'd believed him. I'd gotten so excited that I blurted out how much I wanted a little brother.

But after my brother was born, he despised me. He threw his toys at my head. And the one toy I owned, my only toy, he smashed it to pieces on purpose.

Whenever I went to my parents to complain, they always said the same thing:

"Didn't you say you wanted a little brother to play with? He's still young. He doesn't know any better. You need to be more understanding."

They'd used that line to shut me down through my entire childhood and adolescence. They were still using it when they took my life just before I turned eighteen.