Chapter 2

I drifted back to the living room.

The eighteen candles on Lila’s cake were still burning, casting a warm, golden glow across the room. My family sat around the table, a picture-perfect scene.

I stared at the flames. Eighteen years.

Eighteen years of living like a ghost in this house, long before I actually became one.

My eyes wandered to the living room wall. It was basically a shrine to Lila. Lila’s first steps. Lila’s middle school spelling bee certificate. Lila smiling in her custom temperature-controlled bedroom. There wasn’t a single picture of me. Not one.

Since I was a toddler, the rules of this house were set in stone. The imported liquid vitamins in the fridge? Lila’s. The state-of-the-art air purifier humming 24/7? Lila’s. Every night, Mom would sit on the edge of Lila’s bed, holding her hand, checking her heart monitor, and whispering bedtime stories until she fell asleep.

I used to stand in the hallway, gripping the doorframe, watching them in the soft lamplight.

"Mom?" I would whisper. "Can I hear the story too?"

"Go to bed, Scarlett," Mom would snap, not even turning her head. "Don't wake your sister."

I was the healthy one. The "tough" one. That meant I didn't need anything.

The day I turned fourteen, anger flared in my chest.

I had saved my allowance for six months. Babysitting, mowing lawns, skipping lunches. I finally bought a professional set of sketching pencils and a thick, hardbound sketchbook. I wanted to apply for the art prep program at the high school.

That Sunday, Mom’s cousin brought her bratty seven-year-old over. He started whining because he was bored.

I walked into the kitchen just in time to see Mom handing him my sketchbook and the metal tin of pencils.

"Here you go, sweetie. Go draw in the yard," Mom smiled.

My blood ran cold. "Mom! What are you doing? Those are mine!" I lunged forward, trying to snatch them back.

Mom grabbed my wrist, her nails digging into my skin. "Stop making a scene, Scarlett."

"I bought those with my own money!" I screamed, tears stinging my eyes. "I need them for the art portfolio!"

"Oh, grow up!" Mom yelled, shoving me back. "Your sister’s medical bills are killing us! We don't have thousands of dollars for you to go play Picasso at some fancy art school! Stop wasting money on useless garbage and learn to be practical!"

Useless garbage. My dream.

Something inside me snapped. A blind, buzzing rage took over. I turned and sprinted upstairs, straight into Lila’s room.

It smelled like expensive lavender and pristine sheets. My eyes locked onto the windowsill. There they were. Eighteen beautiful, handcrafted glass candles, lined up perfectly. I thought Mom had bought them for Lila. Another expensive, useless luxury to help the "sick princess" sleep.

"You want to talk about wasting money?!" I screamed, even though Lila wasn't in the room.

I swept my arm across the windowsill.

Crash.

The glass jars hit the hardwood floor, shattering into hundreds of pieces. Wax splattered everywhere. The sharp scent of eucalyptus hit the air.

"Scarlett! What did you do?!"

Mom stood in the doorway, her face pale with horror. She looked at the broken glass, then at me. She marched over and slapped me across the face. Hard.

My cheek burned. I didn't cry. I just glared at her.

"You monster," Mom’s voice shook. She dropped to her knees, desperately trying to scoop up the broken wax with her bare hands. "Do you even know what these were?"

"More of your expensive crap for her!" I spat.

"Lila made these!" Mom screamed, tears spilling down her face. "She spent months making these eucalyptus candles! For your cough! She wanted to give you all eighteen of them for your eighteenth birthday so you wouldn't get sick in the winter!"

The room spun.

I stared at the crushed wax in Mom’s bleeding hands. The strong smell of eucalyptus suddenly burned my throat. Lila made them. For me.

Before I could even process the gut punch, Dad dragged me out of the house.

"To the garage. Now," he ordered.

It was December. The garage had no heating. I was wearing nothing but a thin gray hoodie and sweatpants. Dad locked the door from the outside.

I sat on the freezing concrete floor, pulling my knees to my chest. Within an hour, my fingers and toes went completely numb. My breath came out in white clouds. I started coughing, that familiar tight wheeze in my chest that they always called "fake."

Then, I heard them.

The wall between the garage and the kitchen was thin. I heard Mom sobbing.

"Diane, it's freezing out there," Dad’s muffled voice sounded tired. "Let her in."

"No! She needs to learn!" Mom cried hysterically. "She’s so selfish, Mark! She has no idea! She has a whole life ahead of her, and she’s jealous of some candles?"

"Keep your voice down," Dad hissed.

"Why?! Dr. Evans called yesterday, Mark! You heard him! Lila’s heart is failing faster than they thought. There’s no donor. She’s not going to make it past eighteen. We have four years left with her. Four years!"

I stopped breathing. The cold vanished.

Four years.

"We just have to make her happy," Mom sobbed, her voice breaking. "Just until she turns eighteen. That's all I want."

Sitting in the dark, freezing garage, the truth finally hit me.

I wasn't just the unloved child. I was the surviving one.

Every imported vitamin, every bedside story, every ignored cough of mine—it was all part of a death countdown. They were pouring all their love into a cracked glass, knowing it was going to drain out. And I was the backup plan. The one who would stick around to clean up the mess when Lila died.

The memory faded, snapping me back to the present.

In the living room, Lila finally finished her slice of cake. She looked terrible. Her skin was translucent, her breathing shallow. The excitement of the night had drained whatever energy she had left.

"Okay, sweetheart, time for bed," Dad said softly, pulling her chair out. Mom helped Lila up the stairs. I floated right behind them, a ghost following the family that never wanted me. 

Mom tucked Lila into bed, pulling the heavy duvet up to her chin. Lila looked pale and exhausted, but her eyes were anxious. 

"Mom," Lila whispered, her breathing shallow. "Please let Scarlett out. It's cold in the basement... she was coughing."

Mom stroked Lila's hair, her face softening into pure devotion. "Shh. Don't worry about your sister. I'll go unlock the door right now, okay? Just close your eyes and rest."

"Promise?"

"I promise. Happy birthday, my angel."

Mom waited until Lila’s breathing steadied and her eyes fluttered shut. Then, she quietly slipped out of the room and closed the door. 

Dad was waiting in the hallway. He glanced down the stairs, then at Mom. 

"Diane," he muttered. "Should I go check on Scarlett? She was coughing pretty hard before you locked her down there. It’s pretty damp in the basement."

My soul hovered right in front of him. Yes. Go down there. Open the door.

Mom sighed, rolling her eyes. "Leave it alone, Mark. It’s almost midnight."

"But what if she really can't breathe?"

"She's faking it. She just wanted to ruin Lila’s night because the attention wasn't on her," Mom said coldly. "Lila needs to rest. Let her have one peaceful, perfect birthday night without her sister’s drama."

"Scarlett is tough," Mom said dismissively, guiding Lila up the stairs. "She’s always been tough. She’ll survive one night in the dark. We'll let her out in the morning."

I'm not tough, I wanted to scream. I'm dead!

But no sound came out. I could only watch them disappear up the stairs, leaving the living room in total silence.

The house went dark.

I didn't know how long I floated there. An hour? Two? The silence of the house was suffocating.

Then, a floorboard creaked.

I turned around.

Dad was coming down the stairs. He was in his pajamas, walking on his tiptoes to avoid waking Mom.

In his left hand, he held a steaming mug of honey water. In his right, a bottle of over-the-counter Robitussin.

He walked past the kitchen, his face tight with guilt. He stepped into the hallway.

He stopped right in front of the basement door.

He reached out. His hand hovered over the brass doorknob. 

Turn it, I thought, floating right beside him. Turn it, Dad. Come see what you did.