One Cry of Pain, and My Parents Stopped Loving Me

1 After I was diagnosed with a severe bleeding disorder, I became our family’s “glass princess.” The doctors said I wouldn’t live past five.

So my parents put me first in everything, even spending their life savings on my treatments.

On my fifth birthday, for the first time in a long time, there was laughter in our house.

Only my little sister, Poppy, asked with innocent confusion, “Willow, are you going to die tomorrow?” That was the first time Dad ever hit her.

And Mom knelt beside her, praying to God, begging for just a few more years for me. But on the day of Poppy’s first day of kindergarten, all I said was that my chest hurt a little.

Suddenly, my mother broke down, her hand cracking across my face. “Why are you so cruel? Do you have to ruin everything for your sister?” “Our entire world revolves around you!

Can’t we have one single day to take your sister to school?” “If you want to die, then just die!

Stop torturing us!” She hurled my pill bottles at me, grabbed Poppy’s hand, and slammed the door behind them. I didn’t say anything.

I just stared at the cut on my arm, at the blood that wouldn’t stop, as my body grew colder and colder. … When the glass shattered, I’d instinctively raised my arm to shield my face.

I stared at the gash for a couple of seconds before I remembered the doctor’s words: “Sweetheart, you can never, ever get a cut.

If you do, the bleeding might not stop.” I rushed to find a BandAid and pressed it on. It was soaked through in less than thirty seconds.

I turned to get a bandage, but blood was already dripping onto the floor. Mom loves a clean house. I couldn’t make another mess for her.

I frantically used my sleeve to wipe it up, but the blood just smeared across the tiles, blooming like a terrible flower.

I grabbed the nearest towel and wrapped it tightly around my arm. A chill began to set in, starting in my fingertips and seeping deep into my bones.

I went into the bathroom and filled the tub with hot water. Lying back in the warmth, I finally felt a little bit of relief.

The blood was still flowing, staining the water a pale red. I suddenly missed my parents so much. I used my smartwatch to call my dad. It rang and rang. No answer. I tried my mom.

It was loud on her end. Music, the laughter of children. A world of celebration that felt a million miles away from mine. “What is it?

Hurry up, it’s almost Poppy’s turn to perform.” “Mom, I don’t feel so good.

I’m bleeding…” Her voice, sharp with impatience, cut through the phone. “You don’t feel well again?” “Is it that you’re never well unless the entire world is revolving around you?” “Willow, you’re eight years old.

You’re a big girl. Can’t you be a little more considerate for once?” The next second, the line went dead, the dial tone echoing in the empty bathroom.

I watched the water slowly deepen to crimson and felt a sudden urge to cry. Mom was right. I was always causing trouble for everyone.

My sickness was trouble, my sadness was trouble, and now my bleeding was trouble. Mom’s knitted cardigan was draped over the side of the tub.

I gently pulled it over my face, inhaling her familiar jasmine scent. It was like when I was little, and she’d sat by my bed just like this when I had a fever.

The water was growing cold. The bleeding seemed to be slowing down. It must be almost all gone.

As my head started to feel fuzzy, I wondered, if all my blood runs out, will I finally be okay? Mom and Dad wouldn’t have to worry about their sick daughter anymore.

My sister wouldn’t have to give up everything for me.

And I wouldn’t have to pretend to be strong anymore, wouldn’t have to bite down on my own hand to keep from crying out in pain in the middle of the night.

I curled up in the tub, feeling as safe as I must have in my mother’s womb before I was born.