Growing up, if Cecily so much as frowned, whatever I was holding would be ripped from my hands. If she coughed twice, I’d be sent to kneel out in the snow to reflect on how I had "failed to take proper care of my sister."
In adulthood, their favoritism remained unchanged—only it grew deadlier.
My father would slam his fist against the table, threatening to freeze my trust fund and kick me out of the Vance family.
My mother would stare at me with red, tearful eyes, accusing me of "stealing your sister's nutrients in the womb."
Even Declan, my husband on paper, would constantly lecture me about being "reasonable" and "compliant," trying to pressure me into signing a "Volunteer Experimental Trial Consent Form" for Cecily's sake.
An unapproved, illegal human trial.
In the past, I would have cried. I would have looked at them and asked, "When did any of you ever look at me and see a daughter?"
That was until the day I got my own medical report back.
[Terminal Congenital Heart Failure.]
Seven days left to live.
When my father threw that consent form on the table again, using my banishment as collateral; when my mother sobbed, begging me to "take the hit" for my sister; when Declan tried to coax me, promising "just cooperate, it’ll be over soon"—I finally picked up the pen.
I signed my name on an experimental trial waiver with a 90% mortality rate.
They all smiled with relief. They told me I was finally being mature.
What they didn't know was that my time was already up.
