I was adopted.

They were so good to me that every night before I fell asleep, I prayed to grow up healthy and happy in this home.

Then Mom got pregnant. I hid under my covers and cried all night, quietly packing the little suitcase I had arrived with.

But they didn't send me away. They loved me even more.

The day my brother was born, Mom took my hand and gently stroked my head. "Having an older sister," she said, "is why we have a younger brother."

Dad lifted me above his head and spun me around laughing. "Lily is our family's lucky star — our most beloved baby!"

I finally stopped dreading every single day. I thought I had truly become part of this family.

Then my brother snapped my favorite Barbie in half. I pushed him. He stumbled, sat on the floor, stared for two seconds, and burst into tears.

Mom panicked, shoved me aside, and pulled him into her arms, asking over and over if he was hurt.

Dad came running. He grabbed my shoulders and slammed me against the wall, eyes blazing. "Is this what I raised you all these years for — to bully your brother? Believe me when I say I will send you straight back to—"

"Mark!"

Mom cut Dad off before he could finish.

But she did not have to let him say the rest. I understood anyway.

The kids at the group home had been right. Children like us, children who were adopted, were only loved until the family had a real baby of its own. Once a younger brother or sister arrived, we were sent back.

I had been stupid enough to think I might be the exception.

I bit my lip and said nothing. I watched Mom and Dad fuss over my little brother, soothing him as they took him out the door.

The door closed softly behind them.

It was not loud, but it landed in my chest like a stone.

I thought I would cry. I did not. My eyes stayed dry, almost painfully dry. I stood in the living room for a very long time before going back to my room and dragging the little suitcase out from under my bed.

Five years ago, I had dragged that same suitcase into this home.

I had been so small then that I could barely remember the children's home. What I remembered was Mom crouching in front of me, her eyes bright and kind, asking, "Do you want to come home with me?"

I nodded.

She smiled.

Back then, her smile was prettier than anyone's at the group home.

But just now, there had been no trace of that smile in her eyes.

When she left holding my brother's hand, she did not even look back at me.

Neither did Dad.

They must really be planning to send me back.

If they were going to say it sooner or later, I would rather go first.

At least that way, it would not be quite so humiliating.

I could tell the kids at the group home, "They didn't abandon me. I chose to go back."

They probably would not believe me.

Still, it would sound better than the truth.

I brushed the dust off the suitcase and pulled open the rusty zipper.

First, I packed clothes.

My favorite blue dress. The sweater Mom knitted for me last year. The red scarf that had started to pill at the edges.

I folded everything carefully and placed it inside.

I did not dare take too much. I was afraid they would think I was greedy.

Then came the toys.

I hesitated for a long time before choosing only two things: a white stuffed rabbit and a plastic bracelet shaped with a little moon charm.

The rabbit was the first gift Mom ever gave me here. On my first night in this house, she tucked it into my arms and said, "Let her sleep with you. Then you won't be scared."

The rabbit was worn out now. One ear drooped sideways, and the fur had gone thin in patches.

But it was the first thing I had ever received in this home. I could not leave it behind.

The moon bracelet was from Dad. He had brought it back from a business trip, and my name was engraved on the tiny charm.

Last, I took the family photo.

It had been taken not long after I came here five years ago. In the picture, Mom and Dad held me between them, and I was smiling so wide my eyes disappeared.

I wrapped the frame carefully in the sweater and tucked it between the clothes.

That way, when I missed them, I could take it out and look at it.

When everything was packed, I closed the suitcase and pulled the zipper around.

It was heavier than it had been when I arrived. I tried lifting it and just barely managed.

Outside, the sky had gone completely dark.

I sat on the suitcase and waited for Mom and Dad to come home.

When they got back, if they really wanted to send me away, I would say, "Okay. I already packed."

And if they asked me to stay?

Then I would put the suitcase back under the bed and pretend none of this had happened.

Seven o'clock.

Eight o'clock.

Nine o'clock.

They still were not home.

Were they giving me time on purpose? Waiting for me to take the hint and leave on my own?

Maybe I should be sensible.

At 9:05, I stood up and looked around my room one last time.

My unfinished homework lay open on my desk. The comforter on my bed had been aired out by Mom the day before, and it still smelled faintly of sunshine.

On the windowsill sat the little plant Mom and I had planted together. We had promised to watch it sprout, grow, and bloom.

I guess I would not get to see that anymore.

I closed my bedroom door as quietly as I could, pulled the suitcase through the living room, and stepped out of the apartment.

A gust of cold wind hit me in the face. I shivered and wrapped the red scarf tighter around my neck.

Then I dragged the suitcase into the night.

There were not many people in the apartment complex. A few late commuters hurried past, but no one paid attention to a little girl pulling a suitcase by herself.

The streetlights stretched my shadow and the suitcase's shadow long across the pavement.

The truth was, I no longer remembered exactly where the children's home was. I only had a blurry sense that it was somewhere west, so I kept walking that way.

By the fourth intersection, my arm ached so badly I could barely lift it.

The crosswalk was wide. Halfway across, the suitcase wheel caught in a dip in the road.

I pulled, but it would not move.

So I crouched down and tried to lift it free.

That was when a blinding light swept in from my right.

It was so bright I could not open my eyes.

I heard the shriek of brakes.

Then something hit me hard.

It did not hurt.

It really did not hurt at all.

I only felt myself flying, light as a feather.

Then I saw my suitcase overturned on the road, my clothes and toys scattered everywhere.

My vision blurred. My ears rang.

Footsteps rushed toward me. People shouted. I could not make out what anyone was saying.

When I became aware again, I was floating in the air.

I looked down and saw a crowd gathered on the road.

In the middle of it lay a little girl in a red scarf, surrounded by clothes and toys.

Her eyes were closed. She looked very quiet.

When I saw her face, I startled.

That was me.

The ambulance lights flashed red and blue, washing everyone's faces in strange colors.

Paramedics knelt beside me, doing something I could not understand.

After a while, the paramedics shook their heads.

One of them took out a white sheet and gently covered the small body on the road.

That was when I finally understood.

I was dead.

Maybe that was not so bad.

At least the children at the group home would never have the chance to laugh at me.

The crowd slowly dispersed.

Police officers arrived. They took photos and set up tape around the scene.

Someone picked up my suitcase and placed it beside a patrol car.

But where was I supposed to go?

I did not know.

Before anything else, I wanted to see Mom and Dad one more time.

The wind blew through me. I did not feel cold. I only drifted along with it.

At the intersection, I saw a familiar car.

Dad's black sedan was driving slowly past the accident scene.

I chased after it as if it were a lifeline, slipped through the closed window, and landed in the back seat beside my little brother.

The car was warm. The heater hummed softly.

"There were so many people back there," Mom said from the passenger seat. "Was there an accident?"

Dad glanced at the rearview mirror. "Looked like it. Ambulance and police were there."

My little brother sat beside me, completely focused on a new remote-control car. Its tiny lights blinked on and off. It was so pretty.

"The amusement park was so fun!" he suddenly said, his eyes shining. "Mom, can we go again?"

Mom smiled at him gently. "Of course. We'll go again this weekend."

"I want cotton candy too!" he said, swinging his legs.

"We'll buy it," Dad said, smiling at him through the mirror. "We'll buy everything. Did you have fun today?"

"So much fun!"

The air in the car was light and happy.

Mom scrolled through the photos she had taken that day, laughing softly from time to time.

Dad hummed along with the music.

My brother kept playing with his new toy.

I looked at the three of them, and something sour and heavy spread through my chest.

So it was true. This family was fine without me.

"Oh, right." Mom suddenly remembered something and pulled a box from a shopping bag. "I almost forgot."

My eyes lit up.

It was a brand-new Barbie doll, exactly like the one my brother had broken.

"We had to check so many stores," Mom said, examining the packaging carefully. "But we finally found the last one. It's the same as Lily's, right?"

Dad glanced over. "Exactly the same. She'll love it."

"You really shouldn't have said that to her," Mom murmured. "She's still a child. Noah broke her favorite toy. Of course she got upset."

"I know," Dad said, rubbing his nose awkwardly. "I lost my temper. It was my fault."

Mom put the box back into the bag. "She's probably still sulking at home. When we get back, you take the doll and apologize to her."

"I will," Dad said, his voice softening. "Did you buy the strawberry cake?"

"I did. From her favorite bakery." Mom turned slightly toward the back seat, her gaze gentle. "And a new hair clip too. A moon-shaped one, just the kind she likes."

Noah lifted his remote-control car. "Does Lily get a new toy too?"

"Of course," Mom said. "Everyone gets one."

I stared at the new doll, at Mom's expectant face, at the guilt hidden in Dad's eyes.

All at once, I understood.

They were not getting rid of me.

They had not come home late to force me to leave.

They had gone from store to store just to find me an identical doll.

They had bought strawberry cake and a moon clip.

They had even planned how to apologize.

They still loved me.

But it was too late.