Part 2After Dying in the Fire, I Witnessed My Family "Selling" Me Cheaply for Money

I remember now.

I remember everything.

I could have escaped that fire.

The flames had been closing in, smoke thick in my lungs, but I had a way out.

I was almost free.

But then I heard my parents' voices in my head.

"Protect your sister, no matter what."

I turned back.

I found her—Evelyn—trapped in the blaze, her terrified eyes locked onto mine.

I grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the exit, toward safety.

We were almost there.

Almost free.

And then—

She ripped herself away.

Before I could react, she shoved the door closed and locked it.

I pounded against the wood, screaming her name.

She didn't look back.

She left me there to die.

My sister.

The one I had protected since childhood.

And now, as I watch her calmly discussing my death over dinner, I wonder—

Had she ever loved me at all?

Had they?

"That dead girl," my mother says dismissively, scooping soup into my sister’s bowl. "If she were still alive, she could’ve earned at least 3,000 dollars a month. We could’ve used that money to buy you nice clothes."

They weren’t mourning me.

They weren’t even sad.

I was nothing more than lost income.

Something sharp twists inside me.

I think back to all the ways they had stolen from me.

All the things I had given up, convinced it was my duty as a daughter—as a sister.

When I finished middle school, I begged to continue my education.

But my parents refused.

"You’re stupid anyway," they said. "And you already repeated a year."

But that wasn’t my fault.

They had made me repeat a year so I could stay in the same class as my sister.

"She’s still young," they told me. "We don’t want to leave her alone in elementary school. Stay with her. Protect her."

And like an idiot, I agreed.

I let my parents rob me of my future.

I let them take away my chance to learn, to grow—to be more than a shadow.

We were struggling financially back then.

I did everything—tutored my sister, cooked, cleaned, helped with the farmwork.

And because of that, my grades slipped.

I begged for tutoring.

I wanted a chance to catch up.

But my parents scoffed.

"The school already teaches you everything. If you’re not learning there, why waste money on extra classes?"

And yet, when she struggled, they didn’t hesitate.

They spent money on her tutoring.

Paid for her dance lessons.

Sent her to piano classes.

She became refined.

I remained a simple country girl.

But despite it all, I worked hard.

I fought for my education.

And finally—finally—I became the top student in my class.

For once, I thought they’d be proud of me.

I held up my award, heart pounding, waiting for their approval.

Waiting for them to say, "Well done, sweetheart. We’re proud of you."

Instead, they turned to her.

"Don't worry, darling," my mother soothed, stroking her hair. "Your sister is only good at studying. But you? You have talents—dance, piano. Your grades will catch up soon."

They dismissed my success like it was nothing.

As if being smart—being capable—wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

Because no matter what I did—I would never be their daughter.

Not like her.

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