I didn’t die that day.

At the last second, I jumped out the window, where someone found me and rushed me to the hospital. The doctors said I was lucky. Any later, I would’ve been gone for good.

The woman in the bed next to me peeled an orange for her daughter while glancing my way. “Thank God you’re okay. Your parents must’ve been worried sick!”

I watched with envy as she peeled an orange, gently separating each slice and feeding them to her daughter one by one. The reflection in the hospital window showed just how alone I was.

Still, I tried to convince myself, or maybe I was trying to convince the whole world. I laughed and said out loud, “Yeah… My mom and dad love me so much.”

Suddenly, the hospital door slammed open. I turned and saw Mom and Dad rushing in, faces full of panic and urgency.

A wave of emotion flooded over me. I forced myself to sit up despite the pain, tears rolling down my cheeks. “Mom… Dad…”

I was terrified. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted someone to hold me, even just for a second.

Instead, Mom grabbed me by the collar and yanked me off the bed. The IV needle ripped from my arm, and blood sprayed out like a broken faucet.

“You ingrate!” she shouted. “You faked an allergic reaction and jumped out a damn window just so everyone would think we abuse you? You want the whole town to pity you, huh? You want to ruin our names, huh? Why didn’t you just die when you jumped?”

I curled into a ball, shielding my head as her kicks landed again and again.

I never wanted to hurt anyone. I just didn’t want to die. I had gambled on surviving a fall from the third floor and won, but I didn’t win against my parents’ hatred.

Through the glass window, I saw Dad leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching coldly as Mom clawed at me. The woman in the next bed held her frightened daughter close, whispering softly to comfort her.

More people had gathered outside the room, peering in with judgment in their eyes. They looked at me with disgust, like they were looking at a monster. In an instant, the fragile illusion I had built that maybe my parents still loved me was shattered before everyone.

I lied. My mom and dad didn’t love me. They never did.

After that, they cut me off. I was given no more allowance or rides to school, so I applied to live on campus.

My meals were just plain buns from the cafeteria, with some watery soup that was free. I slept in a 16-person dorm on a straw mat with a thin blanket. Every penny of my tuition and housing came from scholarships I fought to earn each semester.

As I moved up to middle school and then high school, the fees got steeper. Hence, I studied harder, day and night, with no breaks. Every mark mattered as each test could buy me a little more time to survive.

I thought if I became the best, maybe they’d love me again. However, even when I brought home perfect test scores and the visiting relatives praised me, Mom didn’t hesitate to shut it all down.

“She’s as dumb as a rock. She’s nothing like Theo. There’s no way she got those grades honestly.”

Then came the slap.

“Tell me. Who’d you cheat off of?”

My face burned, not just from the sting, but from the shame. I wanted to disappear.

Later, when my teacher called to confirm the scores, Mom barely glanced at the torn-up pieces of my exam lying in the trash.

“What’s there to brag about?” she muttered. “Your brother had perfect marks in every subject, unlike you, flaunting this pitiful result. It’s embarrassing.”

Just like that, my heart was ripped up along with that paper.

If they loved a child as perfect and smart as my brother, I would erase myself and become like him. With that thought, I pushed even harder.

Season after season, my body fought off rashes, frostbite, and mosquito bites, each one returning like clockwork. Still, I never let up.

When I finally walked out of my SAT, I thought I finally had a chance to prove myself to be as smart as my brother. For that, they’d love me, right?

However, I died the day before the results came out. Even in death, I never got to become the daughter they loved as much as my brother.

I watched as Mom and Dad filled an empty plate with food, carefully setting it in front of his seat, just like they’d done for the past eight years. They spoke to him softly, giving him the best cuts of meat and the warmest dishes.

That was when I realized they still weren’t over it, and maybe that was my fault. After all, I was the reason he died, so maybe I was supposed to die, too.

Then, I heard a knock at the door, and a familiar voice rang out from the past.

“Mom, Dad! Open up! I brought your daughter-in-law home!”

Dad, usually so composed, stood up so fast he knocked over the bowl, while Mom collapsed back into the chair, tears pouring down her face.

She kept asking Dad, “Is it him? Is it really him?”

Dad walked to the door, his hands trembling on the knob, frozen in disbelief.

When he finally opened it, there he was, standing right there in the doorway—tall and alive. He was the brother I had killed eight years ago…