I Died Begging for Mom's Love

Mom's hand grabbed my arm before I even opened my eyes.

"Get up! Lily's birthday won't wait for you!"

I blinked at the dark window. The clock said 5:30. Outside, the sky was still black, but Mom's fingernails were digging into my skin like she thought I'd run away if she let go.

"I said GET UP!"

I scrambled out of bed, my feet getting tangled in the sheets. Mom was already pulling clothes out of my closet—no, not my clothes. Lily's clothes. The pink dress with the white flowers that Lily wore to her last birthday party.

"Put it on," Mom said. Her voice was that scary-calm kind, the kind that meant she was about to explode if I said the wrong thing.

"Mom, it's too small. I can't—"

"Lily never complained." She shoved the dress at my chest. "Put. It. On."

My hands shook as I pulled off my pajamas. I could only barely put the dress on my lower body, and the fabric tightly tightened around my waist, making it almost difficult for me to move.

But I didn't say anything. I learned a long time ago that complaining only made things worse.

Mom grabbed my shoulders and spun me toward the mirror. "Look at you. You're bigger than Lily ever got to be." Her fingers dug into my shoulders. "That's not fair, is it?"

I stared at my reflection. My face looked like Lily's—everyone said so. But I wasn't Lily. I was Aria. Except Mom didn't want Aria anymore.

I knew I was 18 , but ever since my sister Lily had died when I was 8, my parents had treated me like crap. For the last ten years, I'd been desperately trying to win back their love, but all they cared about was their dead daughter, Lily. 

My mom even refused to feed me right, so at 18, I was still so skinny I looked like a middle school kid. I was supposed to apply to college, but my teachers said there was something off with my smarts. They had me tested, and it turned out my mind was only at the level of a 13- or 14-year-old kid. They were forcing me to stay in high school forever.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

Mom dragged me to the bathroom and forced me onto the stool. She yanked a brush through my hair so hard I felt strands ripping out. I bit my lip to keep from crying. Lily never cried, Mom always said. Lily was brave. Lily was perfect.

"Hold still!" Mom's hand cracked against the side of my head when I flinched. "Lily never moved when I did her hair!"

Tears burned my eyes, but I squeezed them shut. When Mom finished, she grabbed my chin and forced my face up. Her makeup brushes felt like tiny knives. The mascara wand jabbed my eyeball. I yelped.

"Stop crying!" Mom's voice went shrill. "Lily never cried!"

"It hurts," I choked out.

"Good." Mom's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Maybe pain will teach you to be more like her."

I heard Dad's footsteps in the hallway. For a second, hope flickered in my chest. Maybe he'd tell Mom to stop.

But Dad just stood in the doorway with his coffee mug, staring at his phone.

"Sarah, don't be too rough," he said without looking up. "We don't want marks."

Mom dragged me downstairs after she finished making me look like Lily's ghost. The kitchen smelled like strawberry waffles—Lily's favorite. Mom had set the table with two plates. Just two. One for her, one for Dad.

I stood by the wall and watched them eat. My stomach growled, but I knew better than to move. I wasn't allowed to sit at the table on Lily's birthday.

"Lily ate at seven sharp," Mom said, cutting her waffle into perfect squares. "You'll eat after we finish."

Dad nodded and kept scrolling on his phone. By the time they finished, the waffles were cold and hard. Mom scraped the leftovers onto a paper plate and shoved it at me.

"Eat in your room. Don't make a mess."

I took the plate carefully, turning to leave. But my elbow bumped the hallway table. Lily's photo frame wobbled. I lunged to catch it, but my fingers only knocked it harder.

The frame crashed to the floor. Glass exploded everywhere.

The room went silent.

Mom's chair scraped back. I dropped to my knees, frantically picking up glass pieces. A sharp edge sliced my finger. Blood dripped onto Lily's smiling face in the photo.

"You did that on purpose." Mom's voice was quiet. Too quiet. "You always hated your sister."

"No! I didn't mean to—"

Her hand cracked across my face so hard I tasted copper. "Don't lie to me!"

"I loved Lily!" The tears I'd been holding back spilled over. "I miss her too!"

Mom grabbed my hair and yanked my head back. "This is nothing compared to what Lily suffered because of you."

Because of me. Everything was always because of me. Lily drowned because I didn't watch her. Mom was sad because I was alive. Dad was tired because I made everything harder.

When I looked down, I saw blood on my hand. My cut finger had bled onto Lily's white dress—the one I was wearing.

Mom saw it the same moment I did.

Her face went white, then red, then something worse. Something empty.

"You ruined it." Her voice sounded dead. "You ruined Lily's dress."

"I'm sorry, I'll wash it—"

She grabbed my arm and started dragging me toward the basement door. I knew where we were going. The basement was where Mom sent me when I was bad. Sometimes the closet. Sometimes the cold storage room. Once, she left me in the dark so long I forgot what day it was.

But this time felt different.