Chapter 2

The truth was, I hadn't always hated Chloe. I just wanted someone to love me, too.

Yet every single good thing was reserved for her.

Especially during holidays, when Chloe would receive double of everything, and I got nothing.

A few Thanksgivings ago, before they started locking me away, Mom had roasted a huge turkey. Two golden-brown drumsticks sat perfectly right on top.

At the dinner table, Mom carefully placed both drumsticks onto Chloe's plate.

"Eat up, Chloe. You need your strength."

I looked down at my own plate, which held only a few pieces of boiled greens. Tears spilled over my eyelashes.

"Why does she get both drumsticks? I want one too! I want a drumstick!"

Dad slammed his fork onto the table with a deafening clatter.

"Mia! How can you be so selfish?!" He stood up, his face dark with fury. "Don't you know your sister's health is failing? Don't you know she's..."

He choked on the words, unable to finish.

I didn't know.

All I knew was that Chloe was always pale, that she coughed sometimes, and that our parents looked at her with deep, agonizing sorrow.

I didn't understand what any of it meant back then.

"Why does she get everything?!" I screamed, jumping off my chair and pointing directly at Chloe. "Why do I get nothing? Give me back what belongs to me!"

Chloe burst into tears instantly, fat drops splashing right into her food.

Mom shot out of her seat and slapped me across the face so hard my head whipped around.

That was the first time she had hit me like that.

Chloe tried to intervene, but Dad held her back.

"She needs to learn her lesson! She needs to understand what she can and cannot say!"

The next afternoon, I overheard Mom and Dad whispering in the kitchen.

"She doesn't have many encounters left with us," Mom sobbed quietly.

"I know," Dad choked out, his voice hoarse.

That was the moment I finally understood: Chloe and our family only had one meeting left.

Those invisible numbers floating above people's heads were a countdown of how many times we would ever see them again.

My whole family had known all along that this Thanksgiving would be Chloe's final day.

That was why all the precious gifts went to Chloe. The stunning clothes went to Chloe.

Even when Mom sliced an apple, the bigger half went to Chloe, and the scrap went to me.

Bedtime stories were Chloe's, too.

Mom's voice was always so tender when she read "The Little Prince" or fairy tales about the stars and the moon.

Stories meant strictly for Chloe.

I used to press my ear against the crack of the door, listening to Mom whisper, "Chloe, what story do you want tonight?"

"The Little Mermaid," Chloe would answer softly.

Mom would begin reading, her tone softer than she had ever used with me.

I would sit outside in the dark hallway, hugging my knees, soaking in those beautiful words, feeling a sharp ache squeeze my chest.

Why couldn't she read them to me, just once?

In the living room, Mom and Dad wiped their red-rimmed eyes and gently escorted Chloe back to her bedroom. Watching them, a bitter pang struck my chest.

"Maybe... we should let Mia out now," Dad muttered quietly.

Mom fell silent for a long time.

"Let her stay there a bit longer," Mom finally whispered, her voice heavy with weariness. "Let Chloe have a peaceful, perfect Thanksgiving. Just this one day. It's her last."

Mom rubbed her wet eyes.

"Mia will understand," she murmured, trying to convince herself. "Once Chloe is gone... we will make it all up to Mia. I swear we will."

Dad didn't argue. He walked into the kitchen, grabbed a small roll of bread from the counter, and walked toward the basement stairs.

"Mom, Dad... I don't have a tomorrow anymore."