I Was Dying on "My" Birthday

When I stepped out of the hospital, the sunlight was blinding.

A whole week. Not a single phone call from my family, no text messages asking how I was.

When I was processing the discharge paperwork, the nurse asked, "Is anyone coming to pick you up?"

"No."

I turned and left. I didn’t want to see any more sympathetic looks.

The walk home wasn't long, but it took me ages because I didn't want to return to that house where no one cared.

The depression medication made my brain feel sluggish, my emotions hollowed out.

As I pushed open the front door, the sound of lively celebration drifted from the living room.

"A toast to our artistic genius, Chloe!" Dad, Richard, raised his champagne glass.

Everyone was gathered around Chloe. The walls were covered in her paintings. The spots that should have been mine. That gallery contract was supposed to be mine.

I stood in the doorway, an outsider. While I was breaking down in the hospital bed, they were celebrating her. They didn't even know where I'd been. Or maybe they just didn't care.

My fiancé, Adrian, was sitting next to Chloe. Seeing me, he quickly stood up, snatching his hand back from her waist.

"Leah?" Chloe noticed me. "Where have you been these past few days? You're not upset because Mom and Dad let me sign with the gallery, are you?"

She knew I would be upset, but she took it anyway. And now, somehow, it was my fault.

Adrian handed over an exquisitely wrapped gift box. "Happy birthday, Leah."

"Today isn't my birthday," I said.

The room fell silent.

James sneered. "She's just making a big deal out of nothing. We always celebrate together tonight - she knows that."

Chloe, July 15th. Me, July 16th. But the family tradition was to celebrate on the same day. One cake, two candles. Chloe made the wish first. I was always the one waiting.

"I need to confirm our dinner reservation for tonight," James said before leaving.

Adrian, using the excuse of making a call, escaped to the balcony faster than anyone.

"Sis, you look terrible," Chloe said with concern, walking over. "These gallery contract talks have been exhausting for me too. Thank goodness for calming tea."

She brought over a cup of steaming tea. "I made you some chamomile tea. It's great for sleep."

The scent of chamomile filled my nostrils. She always knew I was allergic to it.

When I was ten, I ended up in the ER after my first cup of chamomile tea. She was right there, watching my throat swell, watching me struggle to breathe. Or maybe she "forgot" on purpose.

"Look how thoughtful your sister is being. Don't be ungrateful," Mom, Isabel, said gently.

I looked at the tea, trying to find a way to refuse.

"Leah." Dad's voice suddenly turned sharp. "Chloe went to the trouble of making this for you. We're celebrating her achievement. Don't ruin the mood like you always do."

See? No one in this family cared about me. No one ever remembered my allergy.

He pushed the teacup towards me. "Drink it. Don't waste your sister's kindness."

I sat down and picked up the cup. Everyone was watching me. A flicker of triumph passed through Chloe's eyes.

I drained the glass in one go. ...If this was what they wanted, then fine. Maybe even a hospital bed would be better than this place I used to call home.

"Feeling better?" Chloe asked.

My throat just felt a little itchy.

"Chloe's asking you a question. Don't just sit there with that sour face," Dad snapped, slapping his hand on the table.

"I'm allergic to chamomile," I said calmly. "But it's fine. I drank it all."

Mom panicked. "What? Why didn't you say so? How were we supposed to know—"

She brought over a glass of water, urging me to drink, but I refused.

Tears instantly welled up in Chloe's eyes. "I'm so sorry, sis! I didn't know you were allergic… I just thought this tea helped me so much, I wanted to help you… You should have told me…"

"Sweetheart, don't cry. It's still your birthday today," Dad immediately went to comfort her. "It's not your fault. It's Leah being unreasonable, never communicating with the family!"

"Leah, look how upset your sister is!" Mom hugged the crying Chloe. "She had good intentions!"

Chloe's tears were always so timely. Always making her the victim, leaving me as the difficult one.

They surrounded Chloe, comforting her, soothing her. No one asked how I was feeling. No one cared about what a chamomile allergy might do.

My throat started to feel tight. But I just stood there, watching the familiar scene. All the anger I used to feel suddenly vanished. Replaced by a strange calm.

So this is what it's like when you finally stop expecting anything. You stop being disappointed.

"I'm sorry," I said. "It's all my fault."

The room went quiet again. Everyone stared at me in shock.