Chapter 4: The Price of Survival

When I woke up, someone was beside me. Mom’s White Shoulders perfume, Dad’s Old Spice—both scents tangled in the air.

Mom whispered, "Sophia, your sister’s been ignored for nine years. For this last month, can’t we just let it go?"

Silence pressed down. I kept my breathing steady, pretending to sleep.

Sophia’s voice was hoarse. "And after that? Will you go back to caring about her more? You promised not to for nine years. Why can’t you stick it out for one more month?"

Dad jumped in. "We’ll stick to it, promise." He said it the same way he promised to quit smoking and be home for dinner—like a lie he told himself.

He hesitated. "When you girls were kidnapped, it was our fault. Your sister was unconscious, and we focused only on her. We failed you both. Your sister, she..."

Sophia cut him off, cold. "She and I are the same age. Just because I was born first, I had to take care of her. When the kidnappers dumped her on the side of the road, I had to escape and save her. If I hadn’t, she’d have been eaten by wild animals!"

Her voice shook with resentment. "I broke my wrist getting free, but you only cared about her fever. We’re both your daughters—why should I be the only one to suffer?"

So that’s why. The missing piece finally clicked.

Everyone saw Sophia as the fragile one, the family’s glass figurine. While I looked healthy—rosy-cheeked, strong, never needing extra care.

But when we were little, I was the sickly one.

Sophia was wild and lively, half a head taller than me. She could climb trees, catch fireflies, always the brave big sister.

She’d sneak me extra cookies, read me stories, hold my hand when thunderstorms rattled the windows.

Then we were kidnapped. Snatched from the Walmart parking lot—every parent’s worst nightmare.

The kidnappers dumped me on a mountain road, too much trouble to keep a sick kid.

Sophia was terrified I wouldn’t survive alone. She fought to escape. Nine years old and fierce.

The ropes cut into her wrists, but she never let me see her pain. She picked wild blackberries, staining our fingers purple and sweet-tart on my tongue, feeding me with her good hand shaking.

She hid her broken wrist in her sleeve, sweat beading on her forehead. I asked if she was hurt.

She said, "The mountain path is rough. I was just worried I couldn’t find you. That’s why I’m sweating."

I was sweating too, scared and weak. I never noticed she was forcing a smile for my sake.

When the cold wind came, I caught a fever. When the search party found us, Dad and Mom focused all their attention on me.

They knew I might not have long, so they smothered me with love.

But Sophia was only nine too. She’d been brave, had sacrificed so much, and was ignored. She cried until she fainted.

During recovery, she started to crave the special treatment I got. She ate less, sometimes doused herself in cold water, learning that pain brought love.

I changed too. I learned to endure, to take my medicine, to get stronger. I didn’t want to be her burden. I wanted to protect her instead—push-ups in my room, protein shakes in secret, fighting to be strong.

As we grew, I became the strong one, invisible. She became the fragile one, cherished and seen.