To my dearest self, on your 18th birthday,
If you're reading this, it means I finally found the courage to write down everything that's been swirling inside me for years. It's a story that begins with sunshine and laughter, and slowly fades into something... else. But I want you to remember the sunshine, remember the laughter, because those moments were real, too.
I was a happy child. Maybe a little too happy, a little too eager to please. I remember twirling in the garden, the wind catching my hair as I chased butterflies. My father would watch me, a soft smile on his face, and my mother would hum a lullaby as she tended to her roses.
"Look, Father, look!" I'd squeal, holding up a dandelion. "I'm a fairy!"
He'd chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "The prettiest fairy in all the land."
My mother would join in, her voice warm and melodic. "And a very clever one, too. Did you finish your numbers today, my love?"
I'd nod eagerly, reciting them perfectly, hoping for a pat on the head, a word of praise. And I usually got it. Life was simple then. My world was filled with bright colors, sweet scents, and the unwavering love of my parents.
I wasn't spoiled, not really. I knew the value of things, but if I wanted a new book, or a special doll, they'd always try their best to get it for me. I wasn't greedy, I didn't demand. A simple "please" and a grateful "thank you" were enough.
I remember one evening, sitting between my parents on the sofa. A crackling fire warmed the room, and the scent of cinnamon filled the air.
"Tell me a story," I begged, snuggling closer to my mother.
My father cleared his throat, adopting a dramatic voice. "Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a princess with hair like spun gold..."
My mother playfully nudged him.
"Oh, please, not the princess again. Tell her about the brave knight."
And so they would go back and forth, weaving tales of adventure and magic, their voices blending together in a comforting harmony. I'd drift off to sleep, feeling safe and loved, the warmth of their presence enveloping me like a soft blanket.
Time moved like a gentle stream. School became my new playground, filled with friends and exciting lessons. I loved learning, loved the feeling of understanding something new. My parents were always supportive, helping me with my homework, encouraging me to explore my interests.
Then, when I turned fourteen, everything shifted. There was a new kind of excitement in the air, a hushed anticipation. My mother was going to have a baby. A sister.
I remember the day they told me. I was ecstatic. A little sister! Someone to play with, to protect, to love. I imagined us sharing secrets, braiding each other's hair, and giggling late into the night.
The months that followed were a flurry of preparations. Tiny clothes were bought, a crib was assembled, and the nursery was painted a soft, calming blue. I helped my mother pick out toys, carefully choosing each one with my future sister in mind.
When she finally arrived, it was like the sun had exploded in our house. She was tiny and perfect, with delicate features and a soft, downy head. They named her Lily.
I remember holding her for the first time, feeling a surge of protectiveness wash over me. She was so fragile, so innocent. I vowed to always be there for her, to be the best big sister in the world.
But things changed. Of course, they did. It's inevitable, I suppose. My parents' attention, once solely focused on me, was now divided. Lily needed them. She needed constant care, constant attention. And they gave it willingly, lovingly.
I understood. I really did. But understanding didn't stop the pang of jealousy that twisted in my gut every time my mother's eyes lit up at Lily's coos, every time my father rushed to soothe her cries.
My perfect grades became... expected. A simple "well done" replaced the enthusiastic praise I used to receive. It wasn't that they stopped loving me, I knew that. It was just that Lily's needs were so much more pressing, so much more demanding.
I started trying harder, pushing myself to excel in everything I did. Perfect scores on tests, winning science fairs, leading the debate team - I threw myself into my studies, hoping to earn back that lost attention, that lost affection.
One day, I received my exam results. I got a perfect score in all subjects except one. I intentionally got 5 wrong in Math. I was excited to show my parents, hoping they will be proud of me.
"It's okay," my father said, patting my shoulder absently. "Just try harder next time."
My heart sank. I wanted to scream, to cry, to demand their attention. But I didn't. I swallowed my disappointment and forced a smile.
Lily started crying. My mother immediately rushed to her side.
Two years passed in a blur of forgotten birthdays and half-hearted compliments. Lily was the center of their world, and I was... on the periphery. I was the responsible one, the independent one, the one who didn't need them as much. Or so they thought.
Then came the diagnosis. Lily was sick. Very sick. Her heart was failing. The doctor said she had a pre-heart failure or stage A heart failure and needed constant monitoring, medication. The length of her stay in the hospital depended on the severity of her condition and the treatment required.
The news hit my parents like a tidal wave. Their world, already centered around Lily, now revolved solely around her health. Every waking moment was spent at the hospital, by her bedside, praying for a miracle.
I tried to be supportive, to be helpful. I visited Lily as often as I could, bringing her toys and books, trying to cheer her up. But it was hard. Seeing her so frail, so weak, broke my heart.
And seeing my parents so consumed by grief, so oblivious to everything else, made me feel even more alone.
My eighteenth birthday came and went without a mention. I wasn't surprised. I'd stopped expecting anything a long time ago. The only thing I was looking forward to was my graduation. I studied hard, determined to make them proud, even if they didn't notice.
A week before graduation, my homeroom teacher called me into her office. She smiled warmly, her eyes filled with pride.
"I have some wonderful news, dear," she said. "You've been chosen as the summa cum laude."
My heart leaped. Finally, something to celebrate. Something to make them see me, to acknowledge my achievements.
I rushed home, eager to share the news. I found my parents at home, which was unusual. Maybe, just maybe, they were planning a surprise party. Maybe they hadn't forgotten me after all.
As I approached their room, I heard voices. Muffled, strained voices. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorknob. Curiosity, and a desperate need to feel connected, propelled me forward.
I pressed my ear against the door, listening.
"...end-stage heart failure," my father was saying, his voice heavy with despair. "There's nothing more they can do. She needs a transplant."
"But there are no matches," my mother replied, her voice choked with tears. "We've been searching for months. There's no hope."
A long silence followed, broken only by their ragged breathing. Then, my mother spoke again, her voice barely a whisper.
"What about her?"