She sighed and sat on the edge of my bed, her face etched with worry. "Ginny's an orphan, sweetie. Can't you just be a little kinder to her?"
Her voice was soft, but it made me feel like a villain.
I turned my back to her, pouting. "I don't want to eat anymore," I muttered, crossing my arms.
I wanted to scream that it wasn't fair. I wanted to complain and cry in her arms like a baby. I wanted to tell her how much I missed my family. But words got stuck in my throat.
Mom gently placed her hand on my back, and I felt consoled just like that.
I waited for her to say, "I'm sorry, sweetie," or "You will always be my daughter," or something. But then, we heard Ginny's cry downstairs.
My teeth clenched. Seriously? The one time I finally had Mom to myself!
Charlie's frantic voice followed. "Ginny! Oh no, did you twist your ankle? How bad is it? Let me see!" The next second, his voice rang out again, louder. "Mom! Dad!"
Mom instantly rushed out of my room, her steps loud and big.
The leftover food sat cold on my bedside table as I watched the car in the garage speed off toward the hospital.
Minutes passed, and I found myself staring at the gate, waiting. Maybe someone would come back. Maybe someone would sit with me.
But everyone was with Ginny.
They all left me in the house, wondering, 'Am I still part of this family?'
I cried until my body felt hollow like I'd drained every tear. Eventually, sleep sneaked in like a thief, taking my sadness away for the night.
Morning came too fast; a voice shook me from whatever dreamless sleep I had left. "Miss, it's time for school, the first day."
It was the maid's voice, not Mom's. Normally, it was Mom waking me up, so I blinked. I mumbled, "Yeah, I'm up," and dragged myself out of bed.
I went through my morning routine on autopilot—shower, brush my teeth, throw on whatever clothes I could find—before heading downstairs.
When I reached the kitchen, my stomach dropped.
Mom was feeding Ginny, spoon by spoon, like she was still a toddler.
It wasn't just that. Ginny was sitting in my seat, all snug like she'd been there forever.
Charlie sat beside her, his arm casually around the back of her chair. "Eat up. You're too skinny," he said, ruffling her hair like she was his actual sister.
They didn't even look up when I walked in.
"Morning," Mom said, her tone so casual I felt ignored.